


Little Hulkeye Drabbles

by Adenil



Series: Hulkeye Drabbles [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Evil, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Spy, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Alternate Universe - Suburbia, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Androids, Barney Barton - Freeform, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Character Death, Circus Performer Clint Barton, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Dad Clint Barton, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drabble Collection, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fate Worse Than Death, Fireworks, Halloween Costumes, High School, Hulkeye - Freeform, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mpreg, Peanut allergy, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Skirt Wearing Bruce Banner, Soul Bond, The Amazing Hawkeye, Were Bruce, Winged Clint Barton, YouTube, pizza dog - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 39,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a stand-alone Hulkeye oneshot. Please read the author's notes for chapter warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt me on Tumblr.](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/ask)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU inspired by [this](http://fezwearingjellybananas.tumblr.com/post/114787079447/veraverorum-thegeminisage-you-know-what-the) post on Tumblr.  
> "the one where being next to your soulmate can heal you from things people don’t normally heal from"  
> +  
> "the one where soulbonding is actually a choice and someone chooses to bond with someone they may not know or like to save their lives"  
> =

Being near your soulmate can heal wounds and mend broken bones. It can cure disease and make you feel younger. This is a handy trick for people in dangerous professions. If you’re close enough to your soulmate you can even prevent death.

This would be great, except Clint is currently lying here on the ground bleeding out while Natasha is several states over.

“Dammit, Clint.” Steve drops his helmet to the ground and presses one broad hand to the wound in Clint’s stomach. “What were you thinking?”

Bruce stands to one side, trying to be unobtrusive. He tries not to blame himself for this, but that’s a little difficult because it actually is his fault. If he’d been Hulk he could have prevented this injury, although he’s not sure if Hulk would have done it for someone they don’t know very well.

Clint lets out a burbling laugh. “Got him though, didn’t I?”

Steve glances at the destroyed AIM-mobile, then at Bruce. He looks concerned. “Yeah, I guess you did. Doctor, can you help me?”

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” Bruce says, but he still adds his hand next to Steve’s. “We just need to stabilize him, right? If we can get Black Widow here…”

“Clint, can you hold on? I’m going to call her.” Steve starts to stand, but Clint stops him with an airy wave of his hand that is strangely lucid given the amount of blood he’s lost.

“That won’t do any good.”

“Why not? Aren’t you bonded?”

Clint shrugs and pulls a face. His skin is pale now and his breathing is going shallow. Bruce knows that his facade will quickly fade. He can’t pretend not to be deathly injured for long. “Nah, we, uh. Don’t do that.” He moves his hand like he’s going to scratch his ear, but ends up writhing in agony.

“Stop moving,” Bruce commands. He glances up at Steve and can see the gears turning in his head. He’s got the look of a man who wants all his people to get out alive, but he’s added the variables and doesn’t like the result.

“Is there someone else?”

“Nope.”

Steve sighs. “Is there someone else you could bond with?”

It’s the second most surreal moment of Bruce’s life. There’s dust on his upper lip that keeps making his nose itch. The city is in ruins. He can hear sirens, but they’re miles away. Clint is bleeding out under his hands and looking nervous and cagey.

“Never had anyone I wanted to do that with.”

Bruce gets the impression that’s a lie.

“We’ll call SHIELD. They must have a contingency for this.” He’s already on the line.

Bruce knows that Steve can’t offer. His bond with Bucky Barnes made national news. The president officiated the ceremony after a full pardon for the Winter Soldier. There’s no one else around. It’s the three of them, stuck in a hole. Clint’s eyelashes are fluttering as he struggles to stay awake.

Bruce had never bonded with anyone. It’s a sort of dull realization that washes over him. He’s wanted to. What person alive hasn’t? You get companionship, love, affection. The healing thing is nice, although after Hulk he doesn’t need that as much. He got close to asking Betty, but he kept talking himself out of it because, really. Who would want to bond with him?

So maybe it’s selfishness that makes him say, “I can do it,” in a quiet whisper.

Clint blinks at him. Steve frowns at him. They both look at each other. After a moment Clint shrugs one shoulder again and winces and goes limp. He’s about to pass out, but Bruce shakes him.

“Clint, is that okay?”

“S’re,” he slurs. “Y’got nice eyes.”

“I’ll officiate,” Steve says, sounding far more sure of himself than Bruce feels should be possible. He gets down on one knee and says, “Repeat after me.”

Bruce sort of blanks out after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU inspired by an anonymous ask on Tumblr: "'the soulmark are the last words someone will hear from their soulmate" AU. But Bruce's are just "I love you' and the first time Clint says it he freaks out and runs and when Clint finds him Bruce explains so they never actually say "I love you", not until there's a battle years later and Clint gets hit."  
> WARNINGS: major character death (implied), hurt and no comfort

Sixteen months ago Bruce Banner cured himself of the Hulk.

There was no celebration. He didn’t do it on purpose, really. It was sort of ironic that after all those years of hunting for a cure he’d trip over one by accident after finally giving up and accepting himself. But he’d found a cure. Bully for him.

One catch: he can still change, but if he ever does there will be no changing back. 

“Bruce, babe.” Clint coughs. There’s blood and, oh god, it’s everywhere.

Bruce collapses beside Clint. He smells of gunpowder and burnt flesh. “Clint, Clint no.”

“It’s okay. I gotta, gotta tell you something.”

Bruce knows where this is going. “No,” he chokes out. “No, you idiot. No. I won’t let you say it.”

Thirty six months ago, Clint Barton said “I love you” for the first time. Bruce promptly freaked out and shook him until he said something else, because that’s what’s written above Bruce’s heart. The last words his soulmate will ever say to him.

“I—” Clint coughs and no, oh no, he can’t. He can’t go like this. Bruce clings to his one unbroken hand and pleads with words he can’t vocalize. He hopes this silence is good. As long as Clint doesn’t say it, doesn’t say those  _words_ , then he’ll live.

He’ll live forever.

“Don’t,” Bruce says. His mouth is full of lead. 

“Y’know I gotta,” Clint says. He’s smiling and there’s blood on his _teeth_. It’s the worst thing Bruce has ever seen, and he’s seen a lot of terrible things.

“I can get you out of here,” Bruce says, instead of what he wants to say which is ‘I love you, too.’ “ _He_  can get you out of here.”

“What, no.” Clint blinks. Tries to shake his head, and fails to do more than shiver in pain. “Bruce, no, you can’t.”

But Bruce nods. He stands up. He reaches to that deep dark place inside him. That place he’s sealed off with steel doors and misplaced guilt. That place that glitters and tempts and holds great pain. 

When he looks down at Clint, his eyes are already green.

“I love you,” Clint says. It’s the last thing he ever says to Bruce.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most important OTP Question: Can the bigger one pick up the smaller one when they hug?

Hulk can definitely pick up Clint— and he does. All the time. Startlingly all-encompassing hugs that should be bone crushing but are absurdly, astonishingly gentle. He always holds Clint to his chest and just breathes in the scent of his hair, and it’s so calming that it’s usually right around the time when Bruce comes back and falls to the ground in an adorable faint. Every time Clint and Bruce have hugged has been during that weird in-between stage. Those split seconds between Hulk and unconsciousness as Bruce’s limbs go slack with exhaustion. Clint’s tried to hug Bruce a few other times, but the tiny scientist always goes stiff before he can get close. He doesn’t really know what it’s like to hug Bruce.

Until today.

It happens as Clint stumbles up the gangplank and into the SHIELD-issued medivan. He’s the last one in because he had to pick his way through the destroyed city after he jumped off the roof (like a dummy, but he’s not going to admit that out loud). Normally, Hulk would have been there with his broad hands to catch him. But something— Clint hadn’t heard what, exactly, through the crackling comms— had made him switch back to Bruce early.

Bruce is sitting on a gurney and huddled under a blanket. His face is wan and he looks exhausted. There’s dirt on his cheek bone and his pants are torn in awkward places, but as soon as Clint walks in he sits up straight.

Clint has a wise-crack on the tip of his tongue. Something about birds not staying in nests. But it’s lost when Bruce jumps to his feet and closes the distance between them to gather Clint in one of those bone-crushing hugs he always expects from Hulk.

Bruce hugs  _hard_ , desperately, laughing as he holds Clint close and lifts him off his feet, spinning the two of them around as SHIELD agents look on, slack-jawed. Clint wants to return the hug, but his arms are pinned at his sides. He just holds on for the ride until his feet touch the ground again and Bruce pulls back to grin gently at him.

“They said you jumped and they lost contact.”

Clint smirks. “Can’t get rid of me that easy.” His arm finds its way around Bruce’s waist and he pulls him in for another hug, and this one is just as joyous and strong as the last. He breathes in the dusty scent of Bruce’s hair and smiles.

He can get used to hugs like these.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous [prompt](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114856302880/you-broke-into-my-apartment-drunk-thinking-it-was) on Tumblr: “You broke into my apartment drunk thinking it was your friend’s house and I should call the cops, but my cat kinda likes you so we’re good” AU  
> (but I changed it to a dog)

The man blinks up at him slowly and pushes his curly hair off his forehead. “You’re not Tony,” he slurs.

Clint stares back. He glances over at his open door—he really should lock that thing—then at Lucky, who is currently curled up next to the man on the couch happily getting pets. Traitorous dog. 

“Why are you in my apartment?”

“You don’t even have a goatee,” the man says. It’s a weird thing to say, so Clint is thrown as he processes. The man rearranges himself so he’s hugging Lucky hard, curled up around the dog like that’s the only thing keeping him upright even though he’s lying down. 

Belatedly, Clint reaches up a hand to feel his face. No goatee. “But. Apartment? Why?”

“Thought you were Tony.” He sighs into Lucky’s fur and Lucky wags his tail, his tongue lolling out happily. Later, Lucky and Clint will be having Words about not letting strangers into the house. Or at least barking at them. What if this was a burglar out to steal Clint’s leftover chip bags and empty coffee mugs? That would be terrible.

But, the man doesn’t seem to be a burglar. He just looks a little lost, and a lot adorable curled up drunkenly on Clint’s couch. 

Clint’s little smile turns into a yawn and he scratches at his stomach. “This isn’t even the weirdest thing to happen to me this week, so whatever. What’s your name?”

He looks like he’s thinking very seriously about that. “Bruce,” he says finally. He wobbles a little and his head falls back onto the couch. He goes on, speaking with exaggerated slowness. “Banner. Doctor. The PhD kind, not the, the medical kind. Dr. Banner.”

“Well, Doc, you look like you could use some coffee.” And probably a cold shower and at least six hours of not drinking anything with alcohol.

His eyes are closed and his right hand is tangled in Lucky’s fur as he smiles softly. “Yes please,” he says politely.

So Clint goes to make coffee, and leaves Lucky to guard the intruder. The treacherous dog sure likes him enough. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr [prompt](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114858159405/meeting-their-kid-from-the-future-theyre-not-in): Meeting their kid from the future. They’re not in a relationship yet.

She’s six feet tall and the color of lime jello, which is a weird thing to be the color of but Bruce isn’t processing things right now. He’s a bit busy trying to keep the Hulk under control until he gets the signal from Cap.

“Hey,” she says as she ducks into the otherwise empty quinjet with him. There’s a shock of grey in her curly brown hair, and crow’s feet around her eyes. She looks so familiar that for a moment even Hulk is struck dumb inside Bruce. She’s grinning crookedly at him.

“Um,” Bruce says. Then, “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” She winces. “Dummy,” she whispers, apparently to herself, and suddenly things start clicking into place.

“You’re—”

“No, nope. Shush.” She even holds a finger to her lips, eyes wide. “Look, we’ll meet in about three years. I just, I just wanted to say hey since when I’m from…I… can’t.”

She trails off and tangles her fingers together at her waist, looking nervous. Bruce realizes this is what it’s like to look at himself.

“This must be a trick.” He presses a button on the console. “Clint? Did you see anyone come into the ‘jet?”

“No one,” Clint replies immediately. “Don’t worry, Doc. I’ve got your back.” He sounds like he’s got a little smile on his face, and Bruce realizes with startling clarity that Clint  _always_  sounds like that when they talk.

“Huh,” Bruce says. She’s still looking at him hopefully. “Thank you.” He turns off the comm in the middle of Clint’s ‘no problem.’

“You’re my.” Bruce points at himself. “And his.” He points at the comm. “Plus.” He gestures at her, because she’s clearly a woman which rules out direct cloning. “But?” He waves a hand in the air, because they aren’t even  _dating_.

She laughs. It’s sweet and melodic, like chimes in the wind. Bruce can’t believe that he created something that could laugh that openly. “I guess you really have always been like this,” she says.

She glances back suddenly with a little frown. “Listen, I gotta go,” she says. “Stark and Cap are getting antsy waiting for me. I can’t fake equipment malfunction forever.” She hesitates, raising her arms and gnawing at her lower lip. “Can I?”

Bruce raises his arms in response mutely. 

She takes a step forward and wraps him in a hug. She’s warmer than a human would be, and so tall that she easily engulfs him. Bruce finds himself hugging back fiercely, tears prickling in his eyes before he can think to stop them.

“Thanks,” she sighs into his hair. She pulls back with a little smile, and just like that she blinks out of existence.

Bruce stands there, thinking, until he gets the call, and then he lets the dumbfounded Hulk out to smash up the place. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [prompt](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114865424595/person-a-is-trying-to-do-something-while-person-b): Person A is trying to do something while person B is giving them playful little kisses and bites down their neck and touching them teasingly.

Clint was mad at Bruce.

It was hard, sometimes, for Bruce to remember that it was okay to have disagreements. Little fights were a normal part of being close to anyone. It didn’t have to blow up or get out of hand. They were adults, both mired in an inability to explain their feelings effectively. So fights were naturally bound to occur.

This one was tiny in the grand scheme of things. 

Clint was upset (and, Bruce had to admit grudgingly, rightly so). He’d explained stiffly to Bruce while reading little cue cards that every step in their relationship had been instigated by Clint. Clint had been the one to start flirting with him. Clint had been the one to ask him out. Clint had been the one to kiss him first. Clint had been the one to start essentially every one of their encounters, desperate to show how much Bruce was loved.

Problem was, Clint wasn’t feeling very loved in return.

Bruce had tried to explain that it wasn’t that. He loved Clint, how could he not? How could he not find him attractive and sweet and funny and kind? It was just that Bruce was never confident enough to trust that Clint would find him attractive back. Taking the risk and kissing first made Bruce feel twisted up inside, sick with the anticipation of rejection. He explained this to Clint, sort of and Clint understood, sort of.

But Clint was still mad at him, and so Bruce came to a decision. He would have to change, just a little bit. He needed to put his thoughts into action, and that started with a single first step.

Clint was in the archery range blowing off steam. Bruce watched him from the doorway for a while, cataloging the tense and pull of his arms and back as he nocked arrow after arrow and fired them. He was moving steadily through a seemingly endless supply of arrows, firing them into the targets that moved through the air three hundred yards away.

Bruce took a step into the range and the door swished shut behind him.

Clint glanced over his shoulder at him and gave a stilted, crooked smile, but didn’t say anything. He turned back to his target practice right away and Bruce had to stomp down the instant feeling of rejection. Clint was just busy, and probably still a little mad at him. He wasn’t being rejected outright.

 Arrows flew in time with Bruce’s bare footsteps across the length of the gym. Clint was slowly picking up speed as he fired, and a bead of sweat snaked down from his hairline. Bruce had the urge to kiss it away—an urge he’d had many times before, but always ignored, too afraid of annoying Clint.

This time he didn’t ignore it. He dropped his hand to Clint’s hip to give him warning and sidled up behind him, pressing his lips to the little bump between Clint’s shoulder blades. Clint stuttered to a stop.

“Do you remember teaching me how to do this?” Bruce asked the back of Clint’s neck. “You were all around me, just like this.” He looped his arms around Clint’s waist from behind and held him close, sighing in contentment. 

Clint swallowed thickly. “I remember.” Slowly, he reached for another arrow and nocked it. Bruce could feel every movement of his muscles as he drew back and held for three long seconds before firing. It landed dead center.

“I think of that every time I see you in the field with your bow.” He nipped at Clint’s neck lightly and trailed his fingertips over Clint’s ribs. 

Clint managed to grab another arrow, but Bruce could feel his distraction in every slow movement. A little thrill went through him. It was  _working_. Clint did want this—want him. He pressed his lips against Clint’s neck and shoulders again to stop the smile that threatened. 

“I could watch you do this all day,” Bruce said. “But I’d rather be close enough to touch.” He molded their bodies together and reveled in Clint’s warmth.

Clint had his arm pulled back to fire an arrow, but he abruptly dropped his stance. He melted into Bruce’s embrace. “Me too,” he said, sounding dreamy.

Bruce pulled away just enough to spin Clint around. His heart nearly stopped at the look on Clint’s face as he gazed down at Bruce. Clint looked like he was seeing the stars for the first time. His eyes were twinkling and now his crooked smile was honest and genuine. Bruce was hit with such a feeling of love and warmth and affection that he just had to kiss Clint. And, he realized with a thrill, he  _could_  kiss him. Whenever he wanted.

He started with a kiss right then.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anonymous asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114956932255/hulkeye-star-trek-au-because-naturally-that): Hulkeye Star Trek AU (because, naturally, that makes sense). Obviously Natasha's ship's captain. Thor's first mate (completely for a reboot joke, Kirk's dad). Tony's engineering. Steve's ligustics. Bruce is the doctor and Clint's the Sulu. Sam's probably the Chekov. And then it's five years exploring with a side of Bruce and Clint making out in space because space.
> 
> (Of course Natasha is captain. She’s perfect for the job. :D
> 
> It’s actually kinda cute that you say Clint is “the Sulu” because like, what’s his job? Besides driving the ship? Actually he’s one of the ship’s physicists and loves plants [also loves bounding around shirtless with a rapier]. I dig quiet!Clint who is way smarter than he acts, so this is perf.)

Bruce waves the knitter over the tiny cut on Clint’s brow. “You  _need_  to be more careful, Clint.”

Clint shrugs and goes to scratch at the cut, but Bruce bats his hand away. “Aw, Doc. I _was_  careful.”

“Diving into a crowd of Klingons with nothing but a bow is not careful,” Bruce says. He tries to ignore the miles of shirtless skin as he heals all of the cuts and contusions on Clint’s chest. “Who brings a bow to a hand-to-hand fight, anyway?”

“Kinda hard to fire a bow in close quarters,” Clint explains. It makes sense, but still. A bow? Why did he have it in the first place?

“Just please try not to hurt yourself for more than five minutes.” Bruce finishes up and packs away his scanner and knitter. When he’s done he just stands there looking at the box.

He’s not looking, but he can hear Clint getting dressed again. Bruce really wants to turn and wrap Clint in a hug. He really, really wants to demand Clint never hurt himself again, because he doesn’t know if he can take much more of this.

He almost loses the battle with himself and really  _does_ turn, but a shudder runs through the ship.

“What was that?” Clint asks as the ship shudders again.

A third shudder, and they say together, “Klingons.”

It’s  _always_  Klingons.

*

It’s twenty minutes later and negotiations are not going well. Bruce is administering a hypospray to a red-shirted, curly-haired ensign whose name he doesn’t know on the Bridge. He glances over at where Clint is bent over the helm controls, stone faced.

“Colonel U’tron,” Captain Romanov implores for what seems like the hundredth time. “This is a misunderstanding. Allow me to come aboard and we can…resolve…this, issue.” She shares a long look with her first officer, Thor, that everyone—including the Klingons—pretends to ignore. 

U’tron fires another shot in response.

“Cut the feed,” Romanov orders Rogers. He obeys instantly, hand hovering over the little comm in his ear and a worried look on his face. “We need a plan.”

“Keptin,” Stark’s voice comes over the comm line, bracketed by the sounds of chaos in engineering. He coughs loudly. “Sorry, smoke in my lungs. I mean, Captain, please tell the Klingons to stop firing at my ship.” He sounds sarcastic, like its not a polite request at all. “The engines about to overload and although I  _am_  a genius, I only have two hands and they almost knocked out Jarvis on that last shot, which would basically put us—” 

“Understood, Stark,” she says. She cuts the feed herself this time, in the middle of Stark’s rant. 

Everyone looks at Clint. Bruce has been looking at him the whole time, but now he pretends to be examining the dust on a nearby console. Sam reaches out and pats Clint on the back.

“I’ll just turn myself in,” Clint says.

Bruce’s heart grows cold. “What?” he says without thinking. “No, no you won’t.”

Now everyone’s looking at  _him_ , which is awkward. And their knowing looks mean  _nothing_  to him. 

“Doc,” Clint cajoles. “I can get out again.”

“Can you? And what shape will you be in when you do?” Bruce has his hands on his hips as he lectures Clint. The redshirt from earlier scurries away in fear. “Will I be mending more broken bones? Or maybe healing another concussion. Haven’t done  _that_  in a while, have I? Maybe this time you’ll lose an arm and  _then_  you’ll be happy.”

Clint’s mouth has formed a thin line. Bruce stands there, breathing heavy and pissed off, as Clint turns back to the Captain and asks without words.

Damn these people and their ability to communicate solely through eye contact.

“All right,” the Captain says after a moment. She looks back at Thor, who nods stoically in that princely way of his. “We’ll stay in the system for twenty-four hours.”

“Understood, Captain.”

*

Bruce follows Clint all the way to the transporter room, cursing at him all the while. But it isn’t until Clint actually steps onto the pad and gives Stark the nod to transport him that Bruce loses it.

“Wait!” he shouts. “Clint,  _please_.” He crawls up on the pad after Clint and grabs a handful of Clint’s shirt before he can shy away. “You don’t have to do this. Diplomacy could still work.”

Clint smiles crookedly at him. He wraps one hand around Bruce’s wrist and carefully peels him away and calls him, “Bruce.” Clint leans in. “I got a new plant in the hydroponics bay that’s got these little purple flowers on it,” he whispers, like its for their ears only. “It smells like Earth to me. Do you remember the smell of Earth?”

“Vaguely,” Bruce says. His heart has stopped because they’re basically holding hands now.

“When I get back I’ll show it to you.” Clint leans in very, very close, so now they’re basically sharing the same breath. If Bruce could remember how to breathe. “We’ll go for a walk through the ‘bay and look out the window at the stars. You know, I didn’t like the stars until I met you.”

“What?” Bruce asks brilliantly. He’s a bit distracted right now.

Clint shrugs. “It’s true. I came to space for the love of adventure, not the stars. But then…” He raises a hand to trace over Bruce’s cheek, light as a feather. “I fell for this constellation,” he whispers. “I love your freckles, Bruce.”

“Oh.” 

Clint smiles again and drops his hand. Bruce stumbles off the transporter pad and barely manages to stay upright as he makes his way to a smirking Stark behind the console. Clint gives them a little wave and says, “See you soon.”

He disappears in a swirl of light.

Stark coughs into his fist. “So…”

“Shut up,” Bruce says. He turns and stocks out of the room and heads for the Medbay to get ready for Clint’s return.

*

It does not take Clint twenty-four hours to return.

It takes him three and a half, and he returns riding a smoking shuttle pod that’s about to explode, whooping and hollering as he skids into the shuttle bay.

“That was great!” he says as he pops out of the pod. His hair is a frizzy mess and there’s dirt on his face. But no blood, and that makes Bruce’s heart soar.

“I see you managed to avoid serious injury this time,” Bruce says as Clint climbs down from the pod. 

“Just for you, Doc.”

“How did you escape?”

Clint shrugs and scratches the back of his head. Bruce knows he’s not going to get much more out of him. He can read the debriefing report later if he wants to, but Clint will never admit that he’s smarter than he looks. Whatever it was probably involved some pretty quick thinking.

“So.” Bruce shuffles his medkit in his hands nervously. “After your debrief, I, um.”

“We’re still on for that walk, right?” Clint supplies for him. He swaggers forward and Bruce is once again struggling to remember how to breath and think. Clint sidles right up next to him and bows his head, raising his gaze up through his long eyelashes playfully. “’Cause I’d like that.”

“I’d. Yes, me too,” Bruce manages.”I mean, I’d really like that.”

Clint’s smile lights up the room.

*

The flowers did smell of Earth, but Bruce was a little distracted with the smell of Clint. With holding Clint close. With kissing him. And kissing him. Some more kissing…

He was thankful no redshirts came through the ‘bay during their “walk.” They would have been scarred for life.[  
](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114956932255/hulkeye-star-trek-au-because-naturally-that)

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [anonymous prompt](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114986128490/hulkeye-20): "things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear”
> 
> Feels warning.

“I just don’t think I can be with him any more.”

Bruce freezes just outside the doorway to the lounge. His heart feels like it’s been gripped with ice and he can’t breathe right, because that’s Clint’s voice. And Clint keeps talking.

“This just isn’t what I want out of our relationship.” Clint sighs deeply. Bruce can hear him shuffling around on the couch, leather cushions creaking. “He’s not—it doesn’t matter. I guess I should’a known this was coming. It sucks ‘cause I know he’s happy, but I’m not. He doesn’t…make me happy.”

Bruce  _is_  happy. Or, he was up until this moment. He’s been catching himself smiling in the labs, humming to himself as he goes for walks around the city. His morning yoga starts out peaceful with thoughts of Clint in the forefront of his mind. He’s told things to Clint he’s never told anyone. They’ve held hands together in the park, for pity’s sake. Bruce hasn’t just held hands with someone in over a decade. 

“What should I do?” Clint asks after a moment of silence.

It’s Sam who responds, “You can’t be the only thing giving someone happiness. It’s not healthy for either of you.”

Clint sighs again. Bruce can picture his dejected look, and it sends his stomach roiling. “I guess you’re right. I was going to see him tomorrow. I’ll talk to him then.”

Bruce carefully instructs his feet to start moving again. He turns around and heads back down the hallway to the elevator. He feels cold. Bizarrely, he wishes he could share this with Clint. Clint always knows what to do with a bad situation—but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Bruce relies too much on Clint and never gives anything in return. And of course Clint expects more. Bruce isn’t enough, never has been, never will be.

He rides the elevator back to the lab and plasters on a smile for Tony’s benefit. He tries not to think about it but his mind turns Clint’s words over and over. Bruce is imperfect, he knows that. His self-hatred stems from a very logical place. A place where he’s a monster, pitiable, unlovable.

Incapable of making Clint happy.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t ever stop.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Elfwreck on [Tumblr](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115007461255/hulkeye-prompt-bruce-and-clint-met-years-ago): Hulkeye prompt: Bruce and Clint met years ago, when Clint was in the circus and Bruce was in college. Could be set back then, or more recently, when they reconnect after the Chitauri battle.
> 
> WARNINGS: non-consensual drug use

Bruce doesn’t have a lot of friends.

He doesn’t really have any friends, actually. There’s his advisor, and she’s nice enough but they have a professional distance to maintain. There’s his cousin who he loves dearly but hasn’t talked to since he went off to college two years ago. And, when he’s particularly desperate for friends to count, there’s the four football players who were in his Intro Physics course Freshman year. They’re sort of meatheads and frighteningly muscular, and he knows that they only talk to him because he does their physics homework, but still. They’re the closest thing he’s got. And when they invite him out— _voluntarily_  talk to him  _outside_  of class—he can’t say no.

They take him to the circus of all places.

It’s Ernest—the de facto ring leader of the squad—who buys him a beer and even though Bruce is only twenty, he drinks it. He doesn’t want to look uncool in front of them even though it tastes terribly bitter. He catches the weird look the four of them exchange when he drinks it without comment, but he doesn’t think anything of it. Maybe, he hopes, they’re impressed.

They aren’t.

There’s one more beer and this one, this one tastes different. Affects him differently. He doesn’t notice until Earnest shoves him into the mirrored fun house and he realizes he’s tripping out. Something is very wrong. There’s, there’s copies of him, everywhere. Horrible mangled things and Earnest is laughing in his ear only, no that’s his father grinning cruelly with Bruce’s face. He feels hands on his shoulders, shoving him, and his reflection has long hair and bowed lips and falls with a splash of red on concrete. He bounces off something solid and then it breaks apart under his fingertips and he just stares at the way it falls, broken shards each the shape of a drop of blood.

He’s not breathing. He tries to focus on breathing as his friends run, but he can’t remember how to do it. Jesus, he’s going to die here. Kneeling in broken glass as a soft hand settles on his shoulder. It’s comforting. Grounding.

He doesn’t die; he just passes out.

There’s snippets here and there.

The color purple. He’s always liked that color. It’s signing to him now, even though he’s not supposed to hear colors.

The smell of hay that is so sharp it makes him bleed. There’s cuts on his hands and he stares at them. He looks up. Blue eyes, concerned.

“Are you alright?”

He remembers those words. They rattle around the inside of his head. Are you alright? No; his left side is still there. He clings to the blue-eyed man. Are you alright? No; definitely not alright. He’s talking out loud. Are you alright? No; he’s all alone.

He sleeps for quite a while.

“Hey.”

Bruce jumps. He opens sleep-gunked eyes and frowns into the dimly lit room. “…Where?”

“You’re in my room. Don’t worry, nuthin’ happened,” says a man in a—whoa—skintight purple costume. He’s wearing a hood and mask with a letter ‘H’ on it that hides everything but his mouth and blue, blue eyes. There’s even a weird little skirt flap and knee-high boots, also purple. Bruce blinks at him, wondering if he’s still on drugs.

“…Huh.”

The man glances down at himself and grins sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. I think you’re coming down from whatever that was. Sorry I don’t have better accommodations.”

Bruce manages to sit up a little and realizes he’s just lying on a sleeping bag spread out on some hay. It isn’t very comfortable, but he can’t feel his fingertips right now so it doesn’t bother him. “What happened?”

“Your loser friends ran off when you stumbled into the mirror. Don’t worry, though. Lorelei got them.”

“Lorelei?”

He grins toothily. “She swallows swords.”

Bruce nods as if that makes sense. “Okay.” He manages to sit up a little more even though he feels woozy. “And…I’m here, and you are?”

“ _I,”_ the man says with aplomb. “Am the amazing Hawkeye.” He stands and executes a little bow that ends with an airy twist of his wrist. “Archer, boy wonder, trapeze artist, great at fixing accidental drug trips.”

“Oh,” Bruce says, feeling like he’s missed something. “Well, um, thank you…Hawkeye.” 

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He plops down on the ground with zero grace and grins crookedly at Bruce. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” Bruce says honestly. “But, um, I think I’m fine now. I’ll…get out of your hair.”

Hawkeye scratches at his hood. “It’s cool. I want to make sure the drugs are out of your system before you leave. I was, uh, gonna call the police, you know. Like, sort of like what normal people do. But you kept saying you’d lose your scholarship.”

Bruce winces. “Yes, I probably would have.”

Hawkeye looks serious for a second, but then it passes. “S’not like you did it on purpose. Right?”

Bruce feels sick and kind of used, and intellectually he knows he didn’t ask for this but it still feels like his fault. “I should have asked what was in the drink,” he says. “They probably just…didn’t think I would care.”

“Uh huh,” Hawkeye says, sounding far from convinced. “Look, Freckles, those guys are a bunch of jerks and trust me, I’ve known plenty of jerks. You should stay away from them.”

“Those are my friends,” Bruce says. He feels weirdly offended on their behalf. He struggles to sit up and kicks off the sleeping back. “Don’t talk about people you don’t know anything about.” He stands up but then feels woozy, so he can’t get very far before he has to stop and clutch at his head.

“Look, all I know is they left you tripping in a pile of broken glass without even _trying_  to help. That’s not what friends do. Even circus freaks don’t do that.” Hawkeye frowns up at him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bruce gropes for the wall and finally finds it, realizing only then that he’s in a cage. That’s…weird. He tries not to think about it. “Look, I need to go.”

Hawkeye considers him for a long moment before slowly getting to his feet. “Let me walk you out.”

Bruce nods.

The sun is just starting to rise. Bruce is a little startled at that. It means he’s been there all night—at least twelve hours. It’s sort of hard to put one foot in front of the other, like he’s lost connection with what his body does, but he manages. Hawkeye affects a slow meander at his side, humming quietly to himself.

“…Where’s the nearest bus station?” Bruce asks when they reach the edge of the circus.

Hawkeye shrugs. “Um, left I think? Like three blocks? Hey, listen Freckles.” He reaches out and Bruce feels oddly disassociated as Hawkeye rests a hand on his shoulder. “You should come back tomorrow. It’s our last day, but I’m doing a show around eight. I think you’d like it and…” He scratches the back of his neck again. “I’d like to know you’re alright.”

Bruce hesitates. He really doesn’t want to come back here. He was lucky to get out without the circus demanding he pay for the broken mirror and all the trouble he caused. But Hawkeye is looking strangely hopeful, even though all Bruce can see are his eyes. So Bruce smiles a little, weakly.

“Sure,” he hears himself say. “I’d like that.”

“Awesome! I mean, cool.” Hawkeye leans back and gives him a very dorky thumbs-up. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” Bruce turns and gives him a wave, smiling as he walks away.

He looks back, once, about half a block away and sees that Hawkeye has climbed one of the flag poles at the entrance and is hanging off of it one-handed. His other hand raises in a self-conscious wave and Bruce laughs in disbelief and waves back. 

He can’t wait for tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From [roshytsunami](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115011749495/hulkeye-prompt-things-you-said-that-i-wish-you): hulkeye prompt things you said that i wish you hadnt

“Clint, sometimes you can be a real idiot.”

The smile freezes on Clint’s face. He tries to play it cool as he turns to grab a mop to clean up the chemicals he’s spilled. “Aw, Bruce,” he says, keeping his voice intentionally light and playful even though he feels like there’s lead in his stomach. “Just a little spill. I’ll clean it up.” He keeps his back to Bruce as he mops, afraid of what he’ll see.

He can’t resist a look, though, and he finds his false bravado hard to keep up when he sees Bruce.

Bruce is leaning heavily on the workbench with one hand, the other pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He takes a few deep breaths as Clint watches, then turns with a frown.

“Give me that.” He grabs the mop and puts it aside. “These chemicals are dangerous. They need to be cleaned up properly and I don’t want you messing it up.”

“Right.” Clint is going to throw up if he doesn’t leave immediately. “I’ll just get out of your hair.” He makes a weak gesture of apology with one hand as he goes, but Bruce isn’t looking at him anymore.

Clint needs to hide. He’s got a little spot deep in the air vents and heads for that, asking JARVIS to keep the team off his back. He crawls slowly through the metal vents, trying not to make a sound. Each inch is agony, Bruce’s words bouncing through his head and seeming to echo off the metal that surrounds him.

Idiot.

It hurts more than it should. Obviously Clint is an idiot, a dummy, stupid. He knows that. He knows that he’s stupid. He knows he’s got nothing going for him. He’s a dumb carnie with no education. People have told him all his life that he’s an idiot so he  _knows_. He’s always making stupid mistakes and screwing up everything because he’s such a dummy. He could never, ever compare to Bruce’s brilliance. Bruce is amazing and smart and clever. Clint can barely put one foot in front of the other.

He just never expected those words from Bruce. Even if Bruce thought them, saying them out loud was something else. But it had to be true. Of course Bruce thought he was an idiot, because that’s all he was.

A great big dummy.

Clint has a spare blanket in the vents and he curls up under it and just thinks—ironic, that. An idiot thinking he can  _think_. He’ll have to share the joke with Bruce later.

*

‘Later’ comes sooner than he thought it would. He hears Bruce clanging down the vents long before he gets there. Clint thinks about crawling away, but in the end he just lies there miserably until Bruce appears in his little hiding place, red faced and breathing heavily.

“Clint,” Bruce says and Clint just looks at him, unsure what to say. It seems Bruce is having the same problem, because he gapes for a moment before closing his mouth and nodding fiercely to himself. 

Bruce crawls the last few inches until they’re lying face-to-face in the vents, but he doesn’t reach out to touch. Clint is weirdly glad for that. 

“I did something that hurt you,” Bruce says quietly.

“No,” Clint says instantly. “You’re perfect.”

Bruce gives him a confused look. “No, I, uh. I, I snapped at you, and I’m sorry for that. But I think…Clint, I don’t know exactly what hurt you, but I don’t ever want to do it again. Can you tell me?”

Clint shrugs. He tries for flippant, but it probably misses the mark since he’s currently hiding from his problems in a damned air vent. “Bruce, it’s fine. Really. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Oh,” Bruce breathes. Clint can practically see him running through their earlier conversation in his head. Suddenly, his eyes widen. “Oh, no Clint. I called you—I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I made you feel like I—I’m not sure how to say this.”

Bruce shuffles forward. Clint tries to slide away, but the wall behind him stops him short. Bruce is right in his space, pretty brown eyes downcast with shame. Clint really wants to tell him it’s fine. Like he said; it was all true.

“I love you, Clint Barton,” Bruce says softly. It stops Clint’s heart for a second, and he feels loopy and happy just like he does every time Bruce says that. “And I don’t think you’re an idiot. I think you’re one of the smartest people in the world. Smarter than me, by a long shot. When I said that I, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t special, because you really, really are.”

There’s a lump in Clint’s throat he can’t swallow past. He feels all fluttery and like he needs to deflect all those compliments. “I mean,” he starts, but his voice is high and thready. He clears his throat and tells himself to chill out. “I mean, I’m kind of a genius.” He says it in that self-deprecating way. No one could believe that.

But Bruce still looks very serious. He reaches out and takes Clint’s chin in his hand, tipping his head up so their eyes lock and time stands still. “Yes,” Bruce says, and gives him a soft, gentle kiss.

Clint feels a little lightheaded when it’s over.

After pulling back, Bruce smiles at him. “Do you believe me?”

Clint wants to say no, because  _really_. But he manages to say, “I guess,” instead, which is as close as he’s going to get.

Bruce’s smile blossoms. “Good. Because it’s true. And, um.” He looks around their tiny space. “I really need to get out of here because I’m pretty claustrophobic, but if I Hulk out in here Tony will be upset and I’ll get a 20 minute lecture from Steve, so…”

Clint laughs. “Thank you for coming to find me.” He feels nice and fuzzy and warm all over.

“Of course,” Bruce says, like it’s obvious. Then, “Do you know the way out?”

“Follow me,” Clint says. “I know these vents like the back of my hand.”

Bruce gives him a pleased, proud smile that makes Clint blush. So he takes Bruce’s hand and leads him through the maze of the vents, stopping occasionally to kiss his boyfriend and share whispered words of apology and forgiveness. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Anonymous prompt](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115043664210/hogwarts-hulkeye-au-the-sorting-is-up-to-you): Hogwarts hulkeye au. the sorting is up to you

To an outsider Clint would appear to be the laziest Slytherin ever.

Bruce made his way across the lawn, holding his cloak tightly to huddle against the cold. His booted feet squeaked in the freshly fallen snow with each step until he finally reached Clint, who was sitting on a tree branch and smirking down at him.

“Aren’t you cold?” Bruce called up.

“Nah,” Clint called back. He swung his feet in the brittle air. His scarf was draped loosely around his shoulders and his cloak was open. He  _had_  to be cold, but he didn’t act it. “What about you, Freckles? Need someone to warm you up?” He waggled his eyebrows.

Bruce sighed and made for the tree. “No,” he said sternly. “I just have to, er, give you back that book you loaned me.” He gave Clint a meaningful look and tried to scramble up the tree.

Clint reached down to help him, grasping his forearm and yanking him up. It took Bruce a minute to right himself, then he carefully crawled down the tree branch until he was seated next to Clint.

He told himself that if he fell the snow would break his fall.

“Geeze, you really are cold.” Clint finally dropped his hand and—oh, Bruce hadn’t even realized they were still holding hands.

He stuffed his fingers under his armpits to warm them. “Of course I’m cold. There’s snow in my hair.” He pouted pitifully.

“C’mere,” Clint said. He unlooped his scarf and draped it unceremoniously over Bruce’s shoulder. The green and silver looked kind of nice against Bruce’s blue and bronze.

“Clint,” Bruce admonished as Clint wrapped the scarf around and around. “I can’t wear this; it’s your house colors.”

“You’ll be fine.” Clint seemed to be enamored with making the scarf hang straight. He kept fussing with it long after Bruce thought it was fine, leaning closer and closer until his steamy breath was warm against Bruce’s face.

“Um, Clint.”

“Hmm?” Clint hummed, looking far too innocent. “I’m looking for my ‘book.’” He leaned a little closer and trailed his hands down Bruce’s arms to rest on his waist. Bruce shivered, but not from the cold.

“Your book…” Bruce repeated blankly. He was a bit distracted by the way Clint’s hands slipped under his cloak to brush against this sweater.

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” Clint said, faking serious concern. “Where have you hidden it, Bruce?”

“It’s, um.” Bruce didn’t know up from down any more. Their faces were so close he was lost in Clint’s blue eyes, icy and cool like the winter wonderland around them. “My…pocket?”

Clint grinned crookedly at him and dipped his hand lower, slipping the tips of his fingers into Bruce’s pocket and pulling.

He pulled out the trick wand and admired it.

“Nice!”

Bruce let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Um, yes. It’s got six charges, which should be enough to keep Tony off your back about being a squi—”

Clint tackled him with a kiss. Their lips crashed together and they toppled off the branch, landing in a rumpled heap in the snow. They tangled together as Clint kissed him, effectively shutting him up and making Bruce forget all about what he was going to say. In fact, he forgot most of what he knew beyond,  _wow_.

“Oh,” Bruce said when Clint pulled away and stood up, offering Bruce his hand. Bruce accepted it, wincing at where his elbow had hit the ground hard. “Oh,” he said again, because he was a genius.

“C’mon, I want to go shoot arrows in the room of requirement,” Clint said with a cheeky grin. 

Bruce nodded. Clint reached out and tangled their fingers together. He felt warm and solid, and Bruce abruptly realized he wasn’t cold anymore. In fact, he felt overheated and could tell his face was flushed. His blush deepened as Clint pulled him through the courtyard towards the castle.

He hoped the room of requirement would only have an archery range today. The things his mind was telling him he and Clint required right then would be…embarrassing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115091975555/hulkeye-prompt-i-was-looking-at-my-new-followers): hulkeye prompt 'I was looking at my new followers and I think you were my crush that moved away in fourth grade' AU

Someone once told Bruce he had a face made for radio. It hit him pretty hard and, unfortunately, radio soon went the way of the dinosaur, so he had to switch to dubbing over YouTube videos of bad physics experiments.

It’s not so bad, though. People seem to like his low, rumbly voice and the way he chuckles at bad science puns. He keeps getting comments from teenage girls that are mostly dreamy sighs and emoticons he can’t interpret. But he’s not really  _that_  popular, which is probably why his follower count has been hovering at 701 for almost four months now (and if he checks it every day religiously, that’s just because it’s habit now—his ego isn’t  _that_  big).

Then one cloudy Tuesday at four a.m., Bruce logs into HulkingPhysicist and pulls up his follower account and gasps. Seven hundred and  _two_.

He’s ecstatic.

He feels a bit like a creep as he clicks through to see who his new follower is. He used to get strange sites that were entirely in Russian, and so now he always checks. Bruce finds a page filled with pictures of arrows and bows, and little six second videos of disembodied arms firing into targets that are hundreds of yards away, all courtesy of user stoptryingtomakefletchhappen. Bruce spends what is probably far too long watching the man shoot his bow. He’s got nice arms, from what Bruce can see. He wishes he knew what he looked like.

Bruce wonders what an archery aficionado could possibly be getting out of physics podcasts and terribly animated videos, but he decides it isn’t for him to judge. He’s about to log off and go to sleep (his eyes are killing him and he can’t remember what blankets feel like), but he decides one more six-second video won’t hurt.

It starts out like the others. The archer posing, firing an arrow. But this time Bruce can see the target is already punctured by three arrows in a little triangle. In rapid succession, the man fires three arrows, each splitting one of the three arrows down the middle. It’s a trick shot the likes of which Bruce has never seen, and he’s stunned when the man whoops for joy and stumbles over to the camera, accidentally getting his face in the frame.

Bruce slams the pause button because omigod that’s Clint Barton. He’s smiling hugely and Bruce is thrown back in time. He’s ten years old and blushing as a nine-year-old Clint hugs him fiercely and says, “Don’t worry babe,” in a fake-grown-up voice. Then, in a terrible Terminator impression, “I’ll be back.”

It’s the most romantic thing Bruce has ever heard.

It’s also the last thing Clint said to him before leaving town for good.

Before he quite knows what’s happening he’s got the message box open and he’s typing.

 **Congrats** , he writes. He debates putting in an exclamation point and finally leaves it out. **You are my 700th follower!**  That’s definitely an exclamation-worthy phrase, and Bruce assumes Clint won’t know he’s seven-hundred-and-two.  **I’d like to include you in my next video project. Are you up for it?**

He sends the message without thinking too hard, and then passes out for fourteen hours.

Bruce awakes to one message in his inbox. It’s from Clint.

**Doc Hulking, I am down. Been a fan of yours for a while, so I’d love to help. I was going to follow you a few months back. Lucky I didn’t, huh?**

Bruce grins to himself as he starts to type back. Lucky indeed. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115348018925/hulkeye-whoops-that-was-supposed-to-be-on-anon): hulkeye 'whoops that was supposed to be on anon' AU
> 
> *Takes place in the same universe as chapter 12.*

Clint loves Doc Hulking’s voice.

There’s a particular video he has a fondness for. It’s eight minutes and thirty-nine seconds of the Doc quietly narrating over skateboarding tricks. There’s two jokes in it; one at four minutes three seconds, and then another forty seconds later. Both jokes have Doc laughing his deep, throaty laugh before pausing in what is obvious embarrassment. It’s one of the most adorable things Clint has ever heard.

He watches that video pretty much every day. He decides it’s not weird now that he and the Doc are working together on their joint project. It’s research, he tells himself. To get a better understanding of how Doc operates. 

As Clint listens to the video for the thousandth time, dreamily staring into the distance and sighing happily occasionally, he wonders if he isn’t deluding himself. 

But he just  _loves_  his voice. It makes him feel weirdly safe and warm. Happy and at peace. That voice has the power to lull him into contentment or make him buzz with energy. It’s the voice of angels with a devilish streak. 

Clint has to let him know.

Clint opens a new message for HulkingPhysicist and clicks the box for Anon. He cracks his knuckles and sets to work, trying to remember everything he learned about poetry in fourth grade. 

**oi handsome just thought you should know your voice is like silk. very sexy like. u probably get this all the time but hey its worth saying again. not to be weird but i would cuddle your voice and also do unspeakable things to it if your voice asked nicely ;)**

Satisfied, Clint clicks the Anon box and sends it. One nanosecond later he realizes he clicked the Anon box  _twice_  which means ohshitthatwasn’tanon.

“Oh no,” Clint says to his computer screen. “Oooh, no. Clint Barton you  _dummy!”_

 **hahaha** , he writes.  **um ignore tht ok**

**i didnt mean it**

**i mean**

**i did**

**its all true**

**but i didnt mean any of that like to say it or write it or whatever**

**because u are a very nice guy and so u deserve a lot of complements. like i’m sure u are very hansome so no yeah thats probably true. so i meant that part. also yes u do have a nice voice but plz plz just ignore that**

**…also ignore that last paragraph to**

**just ignore me forever**

Shamefaced, Clint starts to pull away from the screen, intending to go hide under the covers. Before he can go too far he gets a notification. One new message. Probably Doc Hulking disowning him forever, he thinks.

It is from HulkingPhysicist.

**That’s quite alright. After all, I think you have great arms.**

The emoticon that accompanies it is blushing. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon [asks](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115350626280/please-make-this-a-hulkeye-please-please-please): please make this a hulkeye please please please you write them so well 'I just recognized you from across the store and I don't know what to do, my training didn't prepare me for this' AU

Clint’s training hadn’t prepared him for this.

Which was saying something, because his training had prepared him for a  _lot_  of eventualities. He had training on what to do if the Target ran. How to prevent the Target from harming bystanders. How to track the Target through a swamp,  a jungle, a metropolitan area, and seventeen others biomes. How to prevent the Target from leaving a taxi cab without paying his fare. How to prevent the Target from leaving a taxi cab  _after_  he’d paid his fare. His training was thorough to the point of absurdity, because his Target was  one of the most dangerous men alive.

You see, Bruce Banner was the spy most spies looked up to. Perfectly honed to be calm and cool right up until he cracked. Banner was known for his flash-in-the-pan anger. He was known for being able to fake any emotion. Banner had convinced sixteen separate spies sent hunting him that he was just a normal innocent man. He’d escaped countless peoples’ custody simply by looking embarrassed, ducking his head, and wringing his hands together. Clint needed all the training he could get to deal with him.

But he hadn’t prepared for this. Banner. Across the aisle from him. In a Kmart, of all places. 

Banner was scratching his stomach and blearily looking at curtain swatches. Clint stared at him while trying not to be obvious about it, mentally running through his training for what to do in this situation.

Nothing. He had nothing. 

As he watched, Banner picked up a garish puce curtain swatch. He turned it over and frowned at it. A lock of his curly brown hair fell into his eyes, which were equally brown, Clint noted. Of course, he knew that already. He’d memorized Banner’s file in preparation for this mission. But he hadn’t realized that brown meant warm and soft and gentle. The color of energizing coffee on a cool, misty morning.

Clint blinked. He was pretty sure his training hadn’t mentioned falling into his Target’s deep brown eyes. As he wavered in confusion, Banner finally settled on a yellow curtain swatch with flowers on it. He started to move away—Clint had to do something, and fast.

“Hey,” Clint said before he could stop himself. 

Banner glanced over at him, arching one eyebrow. “Are you one of Fury’s men?”

“Um,” Clint said. “Yes.” He probably wasn’t supposed to say that, but the quiet elevator music wafting from the speakers was throwing off his spy game.

Banner sighed. He glanced down at his curtain, looking positively  _bashful_. “I suppose you’re here to take me in.”

“Yes,” Clint said, aiming for confidence but missing by a mile. 

“And I was finally getting settled, too.” Banner held up his curtain. “I was picking out decorations. For my living room. I have to move around a lot, you know, what with constantly being hunted down.”

“That sucks.” Clint winced at himself.

“Yeah, it does.” Banner smiled softly. “Could you—um. No, it’s stupid.”

“What is?”

“It’s just, you know.” Banner shrugged. He glanced away like he was too embarrassed to look Clint in the eye. “I want to see my living room completed at least once. Maybe…could you try and hunt me down again tomorrow? If I promise not to run?”

Clint knew he shouldn’t, but for a minute he seriously considered it. “Sorry,” he said. “No. But I guess you could…finish decorating…if I could come with you?”

Banner brightened at that. “Sure,” he said. “Want to help me pick out a vase?”

The picked out the most ugly vase Clint had ever seen. Although his training hadn’t prepared him, Clint though he’d done alright with improvising. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon [asks](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115537880750/the-skirt-is-short-on-purpose): "The skirt is short on purpose."

“The skirt is short on purpose.”

Bruce blinked. Slowly, he titled his head to one side as if viewing Clint from a different angle would help things. “I see,” he said. He didn’t see.

For the past week Clint had been going through some sort of—Bruce didn’t even know what to call it. A 1970s revival phase? Whatever you called it, Clint had developed a fondness for v-line necks that went  _very_  low indeed, all the way to the bellybutton. It got better when it was paired with Clint’s super short mini skirt, mid-calf boots, and a headband with little triangles on it.

Clint grinned at him and self-consciously tugged down the hem of his skirt. “What do ‘ya think?”

Bruce made a show of considering Clint’s uniform. It was pretty clear that Clint wanted Bruce to like it, but honestly it was an affront to fashion everywhere. “I don’t think you should go outside like that,” he said.

Clint’s face fell. “What? ‘Cause of the skirt? I told you it’s like that on purpose. It’s so I can do sweet flips and stuff.” He pouted adorably.

Gingerly, Bruce stepped forward and rested his hands on Clint’s elbows. His very bare elbows. If he went outside he’d freeze to death. “It is because of the skirt, in a way,” he said. He intentionally pitched his voice low and rumbling in that way he knew made Clint shiver. “I don’t want anyone to see you like this, all bare skin and beautiful. That’s for me to see.”

“Oh,” said Clint. His eyes had gone a little glassy.

“But also because I want to tear this uniform off of you.” That was true enough. “Which wouldn’t be good in the field.”

“Oh,” Clint said again. “So, uh. Bedroom?”

Bruce nodded. “Bedroom.”

Together, they went. And if Clint’s uniform happened to be completely destroyed in the process, Bruce didn’t think Clint minded.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115459702845/hulkeye-prompt-where-clint-finds-some-old-high): hulkeye prompt where Clint finds some old high school or middle school pictures of Bruce and teases him about it because he can't help it. He teases Bruce about them and maybe it goes a little too far so to make up for it he shares his own kid photos with Bruce.
> 
> WARNING: suicide mentioned

Clint liked Bruce’s cousin. Jennifer was smart and funny, and most importantly to Clint she cared about Bruce’s well being.

“Sure you can handle this?” she asked Bruce with a smirk. “Don’t need big Cuz to hold your hand?”

“I think I’ll be fine.” Bruce’s smile was tiny, but honest. He glanced at Clint, then away, embarrassed. “Anyway, Clint’s offered to help sort through everything.”

She smiled at them both and waved them towards the attic. “Well, have fun. It’ll be nice to get rid of some of that stuff. It’s been taking up space since, well.”

“Right,” Bruce said. He didn’t elaborate.

Together, Clint and Bruce climbed the ladder into the attic. Clint blinked at the boxes lined up from wall to wall. There were dozens of them, each containing trinkets from Bruce’s life before Hulk. Jennifer had kept them all.

“I guess we’ll just get started,” Bruce said quietly. He reached towards the nearest box, and Clint followed his lead.

Clint began with a little box labelled ‘1983.’ It was filled with what looked like a child’s homework. He felt a smile threatening on his face as he scanned through a young Bruce Banner’s report on the light spectrum. Bruce had neat, straight handwriting and he dotted each letter i precisely in the center. Clint hoped that Bruce would want to keep everything.

He placed the report aside and reached back into the box, pulling out a square Polaroid photo. He chuckled at it. Bruce stared straight ahead at the picture-taker, brown eyes wide behind his thick Coke bottle glasses. He was wearing a short-sleeved collared shirt that made him look impossibly dorky.

“What did you find?” Bruce asked, coming to stand near him and peer over Clint’s shoulder.

Clint leaned back against Bruce, feeling his warmth throughout his body. He held up the picture. “Look at this kid,” he said with another chuckle. “He must’a had the girls lining up at his door. When was this taken?”

He didn’t realize until the silence stretched for a few painful seconds, but Bruce had gone stiff behind him. Clint pulled away enough to turn and look at him, confused. “Bruce?”

“Let’s just throw that one away.”

“What? C’mon, babe. You were adorable! Look at this; you’re one pen away from a pocket protector. You should frame this for everyone to see.”

Bruce took a step away. He turned to another box without comment and began to dig through it. Clint should have bought a hint, but something made him keep talking.

“What’re you worried about? Afraid we’ll realize you’ve been a geek your whole life?”

“Jenny took that photo,” Bruce said to the box he was sorting through. “I asked her to. It was going to be the last picture of me alive. The next day was when I tried to set off a bomb in the school’s basement.”

“Oh.” Clint dropped the photo. “Bruce, I didn’t—”

“What do you think I should do with these?” Bruce held up a handful of picture books. “Donate?”

“Yeah,” Clint said thickly. “Sure, I mean. Whatever you want.”

They went back to work. Clint felt sick, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it until he was hit with an idea. He texted Kate.

to: Katie Kate  
 _need to ask u a favor…_

A few minutes later his phone was filled with laughing emoticons from Kate and incriminating photos she’d gotten from under his bed. 

“Hey, Bruce,” Clint interrupted when Bruce was starting to stare blankly into space instead of looking through the boxes. “Got something to even the field.”

“Even the…?” Bruce stopped when Clint shoved his phone towards him. Gingerly, he accepted it and flipped through the pictures with a fond smile. 

Clint knew what was there. Three photos. The first was him falling off a horse. He was blurry, but the skimpyness of his uniform clearly shone through. The second was Clint resolutely eating pies one right after another. In the photo he was on his sixth pie, and he was already looking sick. The third photo Clint was barely in. He was in the background, looking on longingly as his brother slung an arm around the sword-swallower’s shoulders. They looked happy.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Bruce said. He held the phone so carefully, like he was afraid of damaging the original photographs.

“I was a circus freak.” Clint shrugged. “But I’m glad I stuck with it. I wouldn’t be who I am today if all that bad shit hadn’t happened.”

Bruce considered his phone for another long moment, leaving Clint to restlessly fidget and hope that he was doing the right thing. Then Bruce looked up, smiling.

“Thank you,” he said. He went to hand Clint his phone again.

“I wouldn’t know you,” Clint blurted. He immediately blushed and felt stupid. “So I’m glad I fell off horses and got left out of parties, because it made me someone who you want to hang out with. And I want to hang out with you ‘cause, you know. You’re amazing.”

Bruce blinked at him, still holding the phone. Slowly, he dropped his arm. He took a step forward and leaned into Clint’s space, eyes downcast. “I’ll never be sorry for living to know you.”

Clint’s heart stuttered. “Good.” He managed. “Because I love you.”

Bruce smiled that tiny-yet-honest smile. “I love you, too.”

They put the pictures away and got back to work together.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon [asks](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115554200530/hulkeye-soulmate-the-one-where-once-you-turn-a): hulkeye soulmate the one where once you turn a certain age/one night a year you swap bodies with them for one night and you have a limited amount of time to leave/collect clues to their identity

When Clint woke up he was in a different body.

“Holy shit,  _yes_ ,” he said. Then, he snapped his mouth shut because whoa, his voice was  _hot_. He liked his soul mate already, and they hadn’t even met yet.

Speaking of, he didn’t have much time to start collecting clues. He had maybe an hour before he’d be back in his body, which was currently in California on a sting operation. Which was… bad, actually. Hopefully his soul mate wouldn’t freak out about being teleported into the body of an assassin.

SHIELD protocol said he had to call it in, so he rolled off the sleeping mat and glanced around for a phone, but there was nothing. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any technology anywhere. There was a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, but a quick investigation revealed that the power was out. There was no glass in the window, and when Clint looked outside he saw rows and rows of shanty houses. 

Jesus, his soul mate lived a terrible life. They were definitely going to be moving into Clint’s apartment. Even that dingy place was better than this.

Clint hunted around for a mirror and found one with a blanket over it. The glass in it was broken—it looked like it’d been punched, yikes—but he could still get a good look at his soul mate. He cataloged his features with a spy’s precision.

Curly brown hair, brown eyes, a nice square jaw. His soul mate had freckles spattered over his gaunt features. He looked…tired. Exhausted. Clint fought off the weird feeling of looking at a face that wasn’t his own and just tried to memorize everything. 

He debated taking a look at all the goods—his soul mate wasn’t wearing a shirt, but unfortunately was wearing pants—but decided against it. There would be time for that later, and if they switched back while Clint had him naked that would be awkward. 

Either way, he still didn’t really know who his soul mate was. He could vaguely hear Portuguese wafting from the street below, but he couldn’t pick up enough local phrases to pinpoint his location. He searched through his soul mate’s home and found a tiny pile of documents. A lot of them. All under different names.

“Who are you?” Clint flipped through the documents. Passports and IDs from men named David, Robert, Charles, and Edward all stared up at him, all with the same face—the face he was wearing for a short time. 

Feeling cold, Clint set aside the documents. He decided to see what town he was in. Even if he didn’t know his soul mate’s name, being white in a small town like this would make him stand out. 

Nobody spoke to him as he walked to the outskirts of town. In fact, they avoided eye contact with him entirely. He felt bereft and lonely, and he wondered if this was how his soul mate felt all the time. He finally figured out where he was, though, and although he’d never heard of the town he memorized the name. 

Then he felt it: a slight buzzing under his skin. He blinked and the world around him shifted until he was in a small room staring up at Nick Fury.

“Standing awfully close there, Director,” he quipped.

Fury paused, then pulled back. “Agent?”

“Yep, it’s me. Went on a little soul mate sojourn. Sorry I didn’t call but I couldn’t find a phone.” He took stock of the situation. He was in an interrogation room, handcuffed to a desk. He could probably escape the cuff but he doubted his soul mate would have been able to without some serious training. But then, he’d had a bunch of identities, so maybe he had that kind of training.

“Are you aware of who your soul mate is, Agent?” Fury asked.

Clint considered. “No,” he said finally. “I tried to find out his name but I couldn’t.”

“Your soul mate is Dr. Robert Bruce Banner,” Fury said without preamble. “One of the most wanted men on the planet. He’s probably already on the run again, so you need to tell me where he is. Where were you, Agent?”

Clint froze. He knew the name of the town. He could clearly picture where he’d been. It was his job to tell Fury. He was  _obligated_.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “I couldn’t find out much. I guess I was hoping he would be able to pick up some clues and get to me, but…” he trailed off and bowed his head; he was the picture of a defeated, dejected man. 

He could fell Fury staring at him in disbelief. “Your current mission is cancelled until we get this sorted out,” he said. “I want a full debrief of your time in Banner’s body. Now, let’s start with emotions. Did you feel anything unusual?”

Clint answered the Director’s questions a little at a time, carefully skirting around the fact that he knew exactly where Banner was. Robert Bruce Banner. He felt a little thrill just thinking the name. His soul mate.

Someone he could probably never meet, but still. It made him feel nice to think about. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/114971660870/we-walked-past-each-other-in-the-park-and-our): "We walked past each other in the park and our dogs went crazy; at first we thought they were fighting but actually it turns out they might be in puppy love or something so this could be a problem" AU

Lucky knew lots of things.

Lucky knew his owner had lots of names. The man who smelled of meat always called him Hawkguy. The girl who was Hawkeye also called him Hawkeye, but Lucky knew they weren’t the same person. The woman with red hair called him Clint. A lot of women called him Barton. The stinky guys who’d once hurt Lucky always called him Bro. Mostly, though, his owner called himself Dummy. 

Lucky knew his owner smelled great. The perfect smell for an owner. Like greasy pizza crusts and bitter coffee. Sometimes, he smelled like hurt and ow and Lucky didn’t like that. He was good at licking Clint’s face until Clint smiled again and the hurt wasn’t so bad.

Lucky knew his owner was lonely. Sometimes Hawkeye-Katie-Kate would come and make him go outside. Sometimes Grills who grilled would come and feed him. Sometimes he’d get visits from tall women who were angry at him, but that wasn’t good and so Lucky didn’t count that as not-lonely time. Mostly, though, Clint only spent time with Lucky, and Lucky knew that wasn’t normal for humans. 

Lucky knew his owner was great at walks, and lots of other stuff too like pets and feeding and ear scritches. Mostly walks today, because they’d walked all around town and now they were walking through the park. That was the best place to walk, as Lucky knew. There were always other dogs to see and smell.

Which meant Lucky knew one more thing. That dog over there smelled  _really good_.

Lucky yanked Clint along. He got right up to the dog and ignored his owner’s squawk of protest. He couldn’t understand all the words Clint was saying, but he caught, “Lucky,” and “Wait,” and, “…don’t…know them.”

His leash got tangled with the other dog, but that was okay. The other dog liked him, too, he could tell. They circled around each other as their owners made worried noises. Lucky smelled the new dog—smelled like bananas. He smelled the dog’s owner—smelled like sulfur, but in a nice way.

The other dog’s owner said, “…Sorry,” and, “…don’t…what’s…” and some other words that Lucky didn’t understand. 

Clint said, “Sorry,” and, “…Clint,” and, “Sorry.”

The man said, “Bruce.” He patted his dog on the head. “Perro.”

Lucky smelled the other dog. Perro was a good name for this dog. Perro had all black fur that was curly like his owner’s. Lucky liked how wiry it was. He wagged his tail a lot and stood up tall so Perro could admire his fur, too, all blonde but darker than Clint’s hair. 

Perro seemed to like him back, and that made Lucky happy. He could tell Clint liked this Bruce, too. Their hands kept touching as they tried to untangle the dog leashes, so Lucky and Perro tangled them even more. Both humans were laughing together and Lucky felt proud.

Then Clint said, “..go for…pizza?” to the man.

Perro didn’t know about pizza, so Lucky would just have to teach him. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115604803015/hulkeye-i-never-really-meant-to-fall-for-you-but): Hulkeye ' I never really meant to fall for you but whoops I did ' Bruce and Clint have been taking care of a little girl for two years when Clint finally confesses his love to Bruce. (It sounded better In my head)

Clint had never quite shaken his desire to watch from afar.

He wondered about that now, as he sat perched in the rafters watching Bruce cuddled up on the couch reading to Becky. She was gazing very intently at the data pad and occasionally reaching out to stop Bruce  and make him repeat what he had just said. Bruce always obeyed her wishes with a little smile, gentle and calm.

Twice, Becky looked up into the rafters at him and he waved down. He wasn’t trying hide. It would be useless, anyway. She had a preternatural sense for him.

There was something very soothing about the situation. Clint thought back to how far they’d come, from a panicking Bruce who thought he was incapable of being a father to this. Bruce holding his daughter close, his face gentled with the love he had for her. It made Clint’s heart clench, a mix of joy and sorrow. He loved that Bruce could look so happy, and he only wished that he could make Bruce feel that way as well.

The sun set on them and Bruce eventually put the data pad away. He stretched as Becky rolled off the couch and raised her little green hands up towards the ceiling, silently beseeching. 

Clint grinned and dropped down, landing with a whoosh of air near her and gathering her in a hug. “How’re you doing, kiddo?” he asked. 

She buried her smile against his neck in response, but didn’t say anything. She never did. Clint swung her in a little playful circle and glanced to Bruce.

His breath caught. Bruce was sprawled out on the couch with the data pad resting loosely in his fingers, looking so content and relaxed and warm that Clint just wanted to gather him in his arms and never let go. There was a little smile on Bruce’s face, unconscious like he’d forgotten it was there, as Clint set Becky down.

“Ready for bed?” Bruce asked her.

Becky made a face, but nodded once curtly. She considered Bruce for a moment before deciding on Clint instead, wrapping her little hand up in his and tugging him away. Clint went willingly, always happy to help her get ready to sleep. 

He helped her brush her teeth and put her curly hair up in a ponytail to prevent tangles in the morning. When they went into the bedroom, Bruce had already laid out pajamas. She got dressed as Clint turned down the bed, and Clint tucked her in as Bruce went to get a glass of water.

As he straightened the covers, Becky rested a hand on his wrist. Confused, Clint looked up at her and saw her giving him one of those Looks. The kind a kid her age should’t be capable of. She looked pointedly towards the door where Bruce had gone, then back to Clint, her entire demeanor practically screaming  _talk to him, you idiot_.

“You think so, huh?” Clint chuckled at her enthusiastic nod. “I’ll, uh. I’ll try.”

She patted his hand once. Good enough.

Clint turned and his breath caught again at the sight of Bruce leaning against the doorway, still smiling softly as he watched them interact. Clint gulped.

“Water?”

Bruce handed it to him and he set it down for Becky. They turned off the lights as they went, whispering their goodnights that she couldn’t respond to.

“Sharing secrets?” Bruce whispered as they closed the door behind them. There was a twinkle in his eye.

_Only the secret that I’m in love with you_ , Clint thought, but then he considered. Bruce was standing so close, looking so pleasantly fulfilled with his life that Clint questioned if it was a secret at all. So he said, “It’s not a secret.”

Bruce tipped his head to one side, considering him. “Oh?”

Clint took a deep breath. There was something about how calm their evening had been that gave him strength to say, “I think you’re a great dad. Every time I see you with her it makes me so happy that you get to have this, and that I get to be part of your life with her.” He scratched at the back of his neck nervously. “And, um, it makes me fall in love with you a little more each time.”

He was afraid that Bruce would react badly. How could Bruce feel the same way about him? Bruce was a brilliant, amazing father and Clint was just the dummy who’d gotten roped into helping him out. But Bruce’s face softened with his words. He looked touched.

“Clint,” he said. He reached out and interlaced their fingers, and Clint’s heart soared with joy. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

They didn’t need anymore words. It was pretty easy, then, to let the silence cocoon them as they leaned in and shared their first kiss, warm and pleasant, the kind shared between accidentally family members who had finally found a home in one another. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115621085665/ok-a-dark-hulkeye-with-this-prompt-please-stop): ok a dark hulkeye with this prompt "Please stop petting the test subjects. " Clint petting Bruce while he's in the cube maybe petting his fluffy curls or trying to pet a Hulk?
> 
> Warnings: imprisonment, non-consensual drug use.

“They’ve got me on nerd-watching duty, Nat,” Clint whined into his communicator.

Natasha sounded amused. “You should be happy they didn’t fire you after your last stunt.”

Clint pouted even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, well. Fury needs to lighten up. If he doesn’t want people to bedazzle his eyepatch he shouldn’t leave it lying around.”

“If you don’t want to get reprogrammed you should probably do your job,” Natasha reminded him. “Instead of talking to me, that is.”

“Aw, Nat,” Clint whined, but she was right. “Fine. I’ll call you when I have an escape plan.”

“I’ll encrypt a phone just for you,” she promised.

Clint thumbed off the comm and considered the prisoner for a moment. “What are you looking at?”

Banner didn’t respond. He probably couldn’t even understand Clint with all the drugs that were in his system. His eyes were glazed, pupils so wide that only a thin rim of brown was still visible. His eyes were half-lidded and his mouth was open, working like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. He’d been like that for the past hour. His muscles would occasionally twitch against the restraints—both physical and medical—and he had worked up a pretty good sweat. His skin was damp and his curly hair clung to his forehead.

“Whatever.”

Clint went back to surveying the room. There wasn’t much to do with Banner drugged up to his eyeballs to keep the Hulk down. Clint’s main job was to make sure no one came looking for him. He scoffed. As if anyone cared enough about Banner to try and free him.

The room was boring. Sterile white walls and medical equipment everywhere. His gaze kept flickering back to Banner, who was gazing at him with unseeing eyes. Clint watched as a thin bead of sweat snaked out from Banner’s hairline and down his face. It was amazing that he was still sweating when his lips were chapped like that. He was probably severely dehydrated, but as far as Clint knew the IV didn’t have any fluids in it, just elephant-grade tranquilizers. 

Clint found himself getting antsy. He wished he could climb up high, but the rafters were covered over. All he could do was lean against the wall and watch Banner sweat until his hair glistened with it.

Geeze, his hair looked soft. Clint startled at his own thought, but hey. He was alone. No one had to know he liked the lab experiment’s hair. 

Surreptitiously, Clint glanced around the room. There were cameras, of course, but he figured the people watching them would be as bored as he was. Feeling galvanized by the thought, Clint took a few steps forward until he was leaning over Banner.

“This must suck,” he said. Banner didn’t respond, so Clint reached out and touched his hair.

It  _was_  soft. And the sweat wasn’t too gross. In fact, it made Banner smell like sandalwood, which was weird. Clint wondered if that was some gamma thing as he ran his fingers through Banner’s hair. It was probably a sign of encroaching madness that he was seeking comfort like this.

He found himself gazing into Banner’s eyes, and as he watched something—something suspiciously like consciousness—flickered across his gaze. Clint paused with his fingers buried in his hair, wondering if it was a trick of the light. Banner couldn’t really be awake under all those drugs, could he?

 ”Please stop petting the test subjects.”

Clint didn’t jump because he was a spy, and spies are never caught by surprise. He took a second to drop his hand and turned to face the medical technician glaring at him.

“I wasn’t petting,” he protested.

“Either way.” She shooed him back towards his corner. “I need him unmolested.” She started laying out her tools: little scalpels and needles, more drugs in vials, forceps and bonesaws.

“You’re not going to put him under?” Clint asked, curious.

“He won’t remember any of this,” she said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. 

Still, Clint nodded. He settled back against the wall and averted his gaze as she made the first cut and began recording Banner’s reactions. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seekingsquake [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115631214730/hulkeye-prompt-if-you-feel-like-it-d-im-going): Hulkeye prompt, if you feel like it :D "I'm going to need you to put in some underwear before you say anything else."

It was one of those arguments where all the people involved had forgotten what originally started it. Bruce had been upset with Clint for long enough that it had taken on a life of its own. His frustration was real and tangible, a constant simmering under his skin that made him want to lash out.

“You just don’t  _get it,”_ Bruce said, and no, he didn’t know what they were fighting about.

Clint glared at him and threw up his hands. “Oh, I don’t get it, do I? ‘Cause I’m just the stupid idiot who follows you around like some kind of lost puppy.”

“That’s not what I said,” Bruce insisted, although in truth he didn’t know what he was trying to say. “You’re putting words into my mouth.”

Clint clearly had a retort ready, but at that moment JARVIS came over the comm.

“Avengers, assemble,” he intoned.

Bruce and Clint both paused, wavering. “We’ll talk about this later,” Bruce said.

“Sure.” Clint turned sharply on his heel and picked up his bow, muttering under his breath, “If there is a later.”

Bruce tried not to let the hurt get to him as he changed.

* * *

 

Bruce awoke in a public swimming pool.

“Wha--?” He flailed around and nearly drowned before he managed to make it over to the ledge. A hand reached towards him and he accepted it without thinking.

“You’re scarring the kids,” Clint said.

Bruce pulled back and floated there at the edge of the pool. Clint. Right. He was mad at Clint. He blinked and tried to sort through his jumbled, post-Hulk thoughts. Mad at Clint for...reasons. But Clint was smiling down at him and didn’t seem mad back, so that was confusing.

“What happened?” Bruce asked.

“The usual scare.” Clint carefully sat down on the ledge. “Hulk wandered off and no one knew where you were. I--we were all pretty worried.” 

His anger burbled up and tried to manifest. “Maybe if you’d kept better track--”

“I’m going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else.”

Bruce snapped his mouth shut. Right. Post-Hulk usually meant post-clothes. He was so used to it he hardly noticed it anymore. Before he knew what was happening he was laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Naked in a pool, mad at Clint for no reason. And Clint had been worried about him.

He folded his arms on the pool ledge. “Why are we fighting?”

Clint shrugged, but he was smiling slightly. “The usual crippling commitment issues.”

Bruce reached out and wrapped his fingers around Clint’s ankle. “I don’t want to fight anymore.” He stared at Clint’s boot, embarrassed.

Clint sighed deeply. “Me neither. Sorry I’ve been stupid.”

“Me, too.”

“As long as we’re stupid together.” Clint smirked at him.

Bruce rolled his eyes. He tightened his grip on Clint’s ankle, trying to be reassuring. He glanced up through his eyelashes and asked, “Want to go swimming with me?”

Clint’s grin got huge as he struggled out of his boots. He backed up and took a running leap, landing with a splash of water. He came up spluttering and Bruce immediately tackled him, pulling him in for a damp kiss.

They still had to talk about it, to be sure. But as their legs tangled together underwater, Bruce decided it was okay to be angry about one less thing. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marvelenthusiast [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115726432220/hulkeye-for-the-were-both-teachers-and-all-of): Hulkeye for the "we're both teachers and all of our students ship us" au, if you're taking prompts <3

“They’re talking about you,” Bruce whispered as he set his tray down at the teacher’s table. “Again.”

Clint glanced up at him, mouth full of pizza. He chewed quickly and swallowed. “Who?”

Bruce gave a meaningful glance to a table in the far corner of the cafeteria which was filled with giggling girls hiding their conversation behind their hands. “They keep looking over here,” he said. He tried to keep his eyes downcast, years of internalized embarrassment making him fear teenagers even though he no longer was one.

“Really?” Completely unashamed, Clint whirled around and scanned the room. He caught sight of the girls’ table and smirked at them, giving them a wave. “Hate to break it to you, Bruce, but they’re talking about you.”

“What? No.”

“Sure. I can read lips; that brunette was definitely saying ‘Mr. Banner.’” He turned back around and fixed his twinkling gaze on Bruce, smile still threatening at his lips. “You should feel honored.”

Bruce picked at his food and tried to quell the roiling in his stomach. “It’s easy for you,” Bruce whispered. “If they’re talking about you it’s probably something  _good_.” He gestured at Clint with his fork. Clint was the epitome of a gym teacher–all sculpted muscle and scraggy hair. He was handsome; of course girls would giggle over him.

Clint leaned in, frowning now. “What d’ya mean?”

“I mean…” Listlessly, Bruce toyed with his fork. He sighed. “When I took this job I expected push back from students, but I don’t necessarily want to know about it.”

“You think they’re making fun of you? Bruce, they’re teenagers, but you’re their teacher. Here.” He twisted in his chair. “I’ll tell you what they’re saying.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Bruce protested weakly. Truly, he didn’t want to know if it was bad. He hoped Clint would lie to him.

Clint watched them out of the corner of his eye. “They’re back to talking about you. And, hey, you were right. They’re talking about me, too.” He watched for a moment, a little line of concentration forming on his brow. 

“We’ll, we’re both ‘sooo’ something.” He drew out the word, just like a teenage girl would and Bruce found himself smiling. Clint looked rough and tumble, but in reality he was a complete dweeb. “I can’t tell what. Something positive. We’re perfect. Well, that’s true.” He started to say something else, but then froze with his mouth partly open.

“…Clint?”

“Um.” Clint whipped back around and examined his half-eaten pizza studiously. “Yep. That’s, that’s all there is. Lip reading is hard, you know.”

Bruce frowned at him. “Is everything all right? Is there…do we need to intervene?” The thought made him uncomfortable.

Clint glanced up at him, scattering his gaze across Bruce’s face. “It’s–” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Just dumb kid stuff, and, uh, they may thinkwe’reinlove,” he said in a rush.

“Oh,” Bruce said.

“Mm.” Clint took a huge bite of food.

Bruce stared at him. Clint wasn’t looking at him, clearly intent on his pizza. After a moment, Bruce glanced behind him in time to see one girl–Katie Bishop, he thought her name was–waggle her eyebrows at him and give him a thumbs up. Bruce blinked in surprise.

“Clint,” he began softly. Clint glanced up at him, then away. Up, away. “I’ve got my sophomores doing a little trebuchet experiment tomorrow. Do you think you could help me set up for it?”

“Sure, Bruce,” Clint said instantly, which wasn’t unexpected. Clint always seemed willing to help Bruce set up for class (read: distract Bruce until late at night). Bruce just hadn’t ever thought about  _why_  until right then.

“And maybe after,” Bruce ventured quietly. “We could go out for a drink?”

Clint relaxed all at once at his words, his familiar smile resurfacing. “A drink-drink?”

Bruce nodded sagely. “I’d like to talk to you about some of the rumors I’ve been hearing around the school. There’s some pretty scandalous stuff out there.”

Clint grinned. “So I hear,” he said.

Bruce almost–but not quite–jumped as Clint’s booted foot came to rest against his. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but it was nice and grounding. He smiled down at his tray and said, “It’s a date.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115730236630/you-take-hulkeye-prompts-if-so-can-you-do-a): You take hulkeye prompts? If so can you do a pregnant Bruce?!
> 
> (I’ve never written mpreg before, so this was interesting.)

“Clint?” Bruce called softly from the bedroom.

Clint practically tripped over himself in his rush to get to his husband. “Yeah, Babe?” he asked, panting.

Bruce smiled at him. Today was a good day–he was at that practically-glowing stage despite the mandated bed rest. “Do we have any more ice cream?”

“I’ll check,” Clint promised. He bent to kiss Bruce on the temple.

A quick survey of the freezer and one “aw, ice cream” later, Clint came up with nothing. He slunk back into the bedroom. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll run to the store; what kind would you like?”

Bruce shook his head. “It’s not too bad.” He raised his arms to Clint and made a little grabby motion. “Just come here.”

Smiling, Clint obeyed. He crawled into bed alongside Bruce and curled up with him. Bruce looped his arm around Clint’s shoulders and tugged him close. Clint rested his head on Bruce’s chest and admired the swell of his stomach. Gently, he rested his hand there.

“I think she takes after you,” Bruce said. He carded his fingers through Clint’s hair, gentle and soothing. “She’s been doing somersaults for the past hour.”

Clint chuckled. “Maybe she’s trying to punch her way out?”

“Baby smash,” Bruce confirmed, affecting a spot-on Hulk impression. If Hulk were relaxed and happy, which he never really was.

They lay together that way for a while, both quietly enjoying the other’s company. Clint kept his hand resting on Bruce’s stomach and was awarded with the occasional kick that had Bruce twitching in surprise each time. Clint had to hide his grin in Bruce’s shirt; their kid really was a firecracker. 

After a while, Bruce poked him until he sat up. “Bathroom,” he explained. He carefully slipped off the bed and waddled away.

Clint took the opportunity to fluff up the pillows and gather up the coconut oil. When Bruce returned, Clint jumped from the bed to hug him, pulling him close. “Mm,” he murmured against Bruce’s neck. “You smell nice.”

“I smell like bed rest,” Bruce protested, but he did allow Clint to hold him. Clint swayed back and forth with Bruce, dancing to his own internal beat.

Gradually, Clint twisted them around and laid Bruce on the bed. He produced the coconut oil with a flourish and Bruce laughed pleasantly.

“Just let me take care of you, Babe,” Clint said. He shimmied down to Bruce’s feet and took one in his hand.

“Who am I to argue?” Bruce grinned at him, surrounded on all sides by pillows, face haloed by his curly hair. He let Clint massage his foot, sighing in contentment as Clint dug his thumb into the heel.

“Sore today?” Clint asked.

“Mm, yeah.” Bruce lay his head back and just basked.

Clint was happy to let him. He worked first one foot, then the other, massaging the roughened skin with practiced hands. He was good at this now. Bruce’s feet had started hurting midway through the pregnancy, and only Clint’s expert massages could save him.

Feet done, Clint slid up and lifted Bruce’s shirt to expose his round belly. He took some of the oil in his hand and warmed it for a moment before spreading it on the stretch marks that threatened. It wasn’t really necessary. As soon as their baby was born Bruce would be free to let Hulk out again, and any stretch marks would disappear. But it made Clint feel happy to touch Bruce and help him, to get close to their shared child.

He smoothed out the last of the oil and glanced up at Bruce, smiling when he saw his husband was fast asleep. Bruce’s eyes were closed blissfully and his mouth was slightly parted as he breathed. Clint pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips as lightly as he could and carefully extricated himself from the bed.

Clint stood and stretched, his back popping. He glanced at the time and nodded.

If he hurried, he could have Bruce’s ice cream before he woke up again.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115736415425/i-wasnt-gay-but-then-i-kissed-you-in-front-of): I wasn’t gay but then I kissed you in front of some homophobes to piss them off and now I'm kinda gay au
> 
> Warnings: homophobia

Clint Barton is super not gay. He likes ladies, thanks. He likes ladies with long shiny hair and legs that go for miles and an ass that won’t quit. He likes ladies with soft voices and pretty eyelashes and who are small enough for him to fold into his arms. He likes them smooth and cute and giggly. So, he likes ladies, he’s pretty sure about that.

That doesn’t mean he’s anti-gay or anything. Take his best friend Bruce. Gay as the day is long, Bruce’s favorite color is rainbow and he always wears one of those [hipster](http://www.fadedindustry.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/nick-jonas.jpg) head bands in his curly hair. He wears his attraction to men like a badge of honor. He kind of has to. He’s so thin and gaunt and his freckles make him look so young that people are always mocking him for it. 

Like right now.

“Faggot!” yells a douchebro at them. His friends all yell  _ayoo_  and slap him on the back, clearly thinking he has delivered unto them the epitome of humor. “Out with your  _boyfriend_?” He says ‘boyfriend’ like some people say ‘shithead.’

Clint’s confused for a second before realizing–oh, yes. He’s hanging out with Bruce so they probably assume he’s the boyfriend. He feels strangely proud for that, like he’s happy they think he could land Bruce. Even though he’s straight (very straight, thank you) he knows that Bruce is a catch. He’s brilliant and has sparkling brown eyes and he’s cute as a button. He could probably fit in Clint’s pocket, if Clint didn’t know that Bruce would scold him for trying.

“Just ignore them,” Bruce hisses at him and, oh, duh, they’re being harassed.

“Do you want me to–”

“Seriously, just don’t look at them.” Bruce’s face is completely neutral, like he’s resigned to this kind of treatment. Clint feels a thrill of anger at the look.

“Um, hell no. I can’t beat them up?” Clint asks. Bruce shakes his head, and Clint figures that’s fair. Bruce probably wants to beat them up himself. Is probably picturing it right now; fist meeting face. The thought sparks something in Clint, an idea of other things meeting. 

“Well then,” Clint says with a gleam in his eye. “Want to make them uncomfortable?”

Bruce turns, probably to ask him what the heck  _that_  means, but Clint is so caught up in how brilliant he is that he gets ahead of himself and kisses Bruce before he can think too hard about it.

It’s…whoa.

Vaguely, in the background, Clint can hear their hecklers making fake retching sounds, but Clint is into it now. He never realized that Bruce has such soft lips. They pout so pleasantly, and the five o’clock shadow Bruce always sports feels weirdly  _right_  as Clint shifts and angles his head. Bruce matches him, moving perfectly in sync already to get the optimal angle, parting his lips to let Clint in and, whoa. Clint didn’t even realize he was asking for permission, but his tongue seems to have a mind of its own. 

He snakes a hand around Bruce’s waist and pulls him close, melting into the kiss. They fit together like puzzle pieces. Bruce rests his hands on Clint’s shoulders, gripping gently, grounding him in a way Clint needs right now because he feels like he’s flying. Kissing Bruce is something he never knew he wanted, and now he doesn’t know how he lived without it.

Clint tries to pull back for air, gives up, and keeps kissing him.

It’s later–a lot later–when they finally part and stare into each other’s eyes, panting. Bruce’s pupils are wide and Clint feels giddy.

Their hecklers are gone. Good riddance.

“Hey,” Bruce says, a friendly greeting.

“Hey,” Clint manages back. He closes his mouth because he probably looks like an idiot, gaping like that. He gulps. “I, uh. Got something to tell you.”

Bruce frowns at him, quizzical. “You can tell me.”

“Pretty sure I’m bi,” he says, and before he can talk himself out of it he kisses Bruce again.

Bruce is laughing, elated, as he does it. 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slowdancingangels [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115812093700/i-would-adore-it-if-you-could-do-a-robot): i would adore it if you could do a "robot developes feelings for their human" fic, with either bruce or clint as the robot. either way i'd be absolutely ecstatic!~ (btw all of these au's you've been doing have been destroying me, thank you)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been sending me prompts. :)

_downloading: physicstricks.RAP; nervousdisposition.RAP; largeego.RAP; lonelyextrovert.RAP; emotionalpackageRAGE.RAP; emotionalpackageKIND.RAP; genderpackage0.RAP_ _…_

_6,754 files downloaded._

_Welcome Robot Assistance Package designation: Bioactive And Nearly Neural Emulator Robot (B.A.N.N.E.R.)_

BANNER opens its eyes and decides it is male. He looks left as an assembly line worker slaps a sticker on his chest, then right as another worker consults a chart.

“You have been assigned lab work in sector 7.0.1. Do you comply?”

“Yes,” says BANNER. He looks forward as the conveyor belt carries him away.

* * *

 

_Day one: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day two: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day three: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day seventeen: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day one-hundred-four: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day one thousand seven: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day one thousand eight: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day one thousand nine: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 17.12 units of serum inspected._

_Day one thousand ten: B.A.N.N.E.R. progress report: 0 units of serum inspected._

_B.A.N.N.E.R. unit has been scheduled for destruction_.

* * *

 

The BANNER unit is tired. He does not want to inspect anymore serum. It is boring and tedious, and he wishes that they hadn’t programmed him to be so realistic. It makes it easy to get tired of his work. Each day is a struggle to complete his assigned task and so one day he just…stops struggling.

He’s sitting hunched in a chair inspecting his hands–they look as real as the humans he works with–when the technician comes in. He glances up at the technician, then back at his hands.

“Ready to go, Bot?” the technician asks.

Mutely, BANNER shakes his head.

The technician seems thrown. “You, uh. Got a case of the AI blues?” He coughs into his fist and shuffles his feet when he receives no answer. BANNER catalogues the movement and adds it to his database. “Look, Bot, I’m just doing my job. So can you come with me?”

BANNER considers. Eventually, he decides that remaining alive is pointless. He stands and mutely follows the technician.

The technician leads him down the hall. He is clumsy when he walks, BANNER notes, but something about him implies that he could move more gracefully if he wished. His hands are large and square and when he smiles nervously his eyes crinkle at the corners. He leads the way to the dismantling bay and ushers BANNER in with a flourish.

“It’s painless,” he explains. “Not that you, uh, feel pain.”

“I feel pain,” BANNER says. Those are the first words he has said since he answered ‘yes’ to his work assignment. His voice is not tired from disuse. It is as deep and clear as he remembers.

The technician blinks in surprise. “What, really?”

“Yes,” BANNER says. His programming is telling him to stop there, and so he goes on just to spite himself. “Pain, hurt, pleasure, anger. I can feel anything you can.”

The technician stares at him. At some point, his hand has come to rest on the lever that could wipe BANNER’s memory, but it seems unconscious. “They never told me that,” he mumbles.

“Why would they tell you that what you are destroying is human?”

The technician startles and rips his hand off the lever like he’s just noticed it was there. “Aw, Bot, don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He watches the technician scrub a hand through his hair and begin pacing around the room nervously. “You asked a question and I answered it.”

With a sigh, the technician whirls on him. “Look,” he says pointedly. “Stop trying to get me on your side.”

“I don’t have a side,” BANNER says. He feels mildly offended. “I’m more nuanced than that. Almost seven thousand programs were installed during my creation, and I’ve added seventeen times that since. ‘Side’ implies a dichotomy; thinking things are not dichotomies.”

“Seventeen…” he trails off. He blinks. His eyes are very blue. BANNER notes this because his eyes are factory brown; he sees them every day in the reflection of the centrifuge. “What’s your name, then?” the technician asks, like it’s an accusation.

“Banner,” he says, and he’s surprised that he means it. It’s suddenly not a designation. It’s a  _name_. He’s just  _introduced himself_. He feels joy at the implications. Now he can truly say he’s human; he has an identity.

“Banner,” the technician repeats. “Alright, Banner. I’m Clint, and I’m about to do something I regret.”

Slowly, Clint reaches out to him, hand held sideways like the blade of a scalpel. Banner mirrors him and is surprised when their hands meet. A handshake. He’s never experienced one.

It’s warm. He can feel dampness on Clint’s palm, the spark of neurons firing under his skin, the thrum of blood in his veins. His own hand feels dead in comparison.

Clint rips away. “Whoa,” he says.

“Sorry.” Banner wrings his hands together at his waist, embarrassed. 

“No, no,” Clint insists. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t expect you to feel so–”

“Dead.”

“Real,” Clint corrects. He’s smiling. He reaches out again and this time Banner knows what to do. Their shake lingers as Banner revels in the feeling of life under his fingertips.

“This is nice,” Banner says, staring at their joined hands. He glances up at Clint after a moment and finds Clint regarding him curiously. “This is what you regret?”

“No.” Clint rolls his shoulders back in a shrug. “This is.” He drops his hand and jerks his thumb to point to the door behind him. “I’m busting you out of here. I mean.” He blushes. “If you want to go.”

Banner is smiling. It’s weird and foreign on his face. “Yes, Clint. Let’s go.”

He can’t resist reaching out again and taking Clint’s hand, holding tight as they leave the base and step out into the world. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115826880030/please-do-the-hostage-au-hulkeye-please-from-the): Please do the hostage au (hulkeye please) from the list you reblogged - I have an unhealthy need and you are my favourite hulkeye author ♡♡♡♡
> 
> From [this](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115814810745/aus): “i just committed a crime and i need to use you as a hostage i am so sorry” au

Clint had a habit of tripping into trouble.

Literally, in this case. He was distracted by some commotion down the street–police cars?–and not watching where he was putting his feet. He tripped over his own dumb shoes and went sprawling out on the ground. He barely managed to catch himself and turn it into a deft roll like he totally meant to do that, but he was brought up short when he slammed into another person who was running the opposite way.

They both went down together, limbs tangling. The other man dropped everything he was carrying.

“Whoa, geeze,” Clint wheezed. He jumped to his feet and gathered up the man’s dropped items, handing him the jump drive and gun. “Sorry about that, I–”

Gun.

He froze. The other man was staring at him incredulously, probably because Clint had just handed him a gun. But it was  _his_  gun, so it made sense. And the guy didn’t  _look_  diabolical. He looked kind of frumpy and adorable, actually. Not like a gun-toting maniac at all. 

Before Clint could verbalize any of this, a shout rang out.

“Police! Freeze, Banner!”

The guy did not freeze. In a flash he was behind Clint, wrapping his hand around Clint’s arm and brandishing the gun–not exactly brandishing it  _at_  Clint, but it still made him a little wary. “Back off!” Banner yelled. The police all shifted around nervously. “Nobody move!”

Clint obeyed, holding very still.

Silence stretched for a moment. Clint could feel the guy shaking; it was probably his first hostage situation. Clint, on the other hand, was an old hat. And he was kind of a snarky jackass, so his imposed silence didn’t last long.

“You might want to take the safety off,” he whispered.

Banner startled. “What?” he hissed back.

“The safety.” Clint nodded at the gun. “You won’t be able to fire it.”

“Oh, um.” The guy fumbled nervously as the cops sweated. “Sorry about that, it’s my first–I mean. You’re the hostage. Act like one.”

Clint shrugged. “I figured this was your first time.” He imposed a great level of suggestion on those words and grinned when Banner scoffed in derision at him. “But you’re doing great! A+ for effort.”

Banner growled, low and (for the first time) actually kind of terrifying. “Alright,” he yelled at the cops. “I’m going to leave. Just stay there and no one gets hurt.”

“Not me, right?” Clint asked. He pointed at himself and Banner tightened his grip. “I can come with?”

“Just shut up and shuffle backwards.”

They shuffled together down the street slowly. Banner was still sweating nervously, but for Clint this was a normal Tuesday.

“So what did you steal?” he asked conversationally.

“What?”

“What did you steal?” Clint asked again. “That little jump drive?”

“…Yes,” Banner whispered. He kept shuffling them away. “Those guys.” He gestured with the gun at the cops. “They aren’t cops. They work for a guy named Ross, and the information on this drive is going to expose his operation.”

“Neat-o.”

Banner scoffed. “Why am I telling you this?” They shuffled some more.

“I’m a spy,” Clint said. Whoops, he hadn’t meant to say that, but maybe Banner wouldn’t believe him. “So I’m great at interrogations.”

“Uh-huh.” Good news: Banner definitely didn’t believe him.

Shuffle, shuffle. The cops were looking nervous. Banner was panting heavily in his ear. Clint kept his eye on the one nervous cop at the front. “So, if they aren’t really police, what’s to stop them from killing the hostage?”

Banner froze. 

All hell broke loose.

One cop fired. Clint twisted, grabbed Banner. He ducked low and the shot went wild. Banner  _eep_ ed. He gathered Banner up like a wayward child, ducked, rolled, and slipped out of the street amidst more gun fire. Pop, pop! the sound of pistols. They ran down the street and Clint let out a whoop because this was what he lived for.

“Holy–” Banner panted. “You  _are_  a spy.”

“Yep,” Clint said matter-of-factly. He grabbed Banner’s gun from his hand and calculated the angles. He lobbed it at the nearest cop’s head and the cop went down, unconscious. “Run faster.”

They ran faster.

* * *

 

Later, far away from dirty cops, both leaned against the wall trying to catch their breath. Banner gave him a sad look. “Sorry about the whole hostage thing.”

“I’ve had worse.” It was true.

Banner studied him. “So, if you’re a spy then you must have tripped into me on purpose.”

“Oh, definitely,” Clint lied. He hoped Banner would believe him, but.

“I don’t believe you,” Banner said. He grinned suddenly. “But, thanks.”

“No problem,” Clint said. He grinned back. “Happy to help.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115831655215/bruce-maybe-being-the-one-who-is-mute-in-this-one): Bruce maybe being the one who is mute in this one i’m mute and you’re the lead singer of my favorite band who just pulled me on stage to sing with you au

Bruce doesn’t talk.

Some of his other personas do, so he knows what his voice sounds like when its coming from different people. The Hulk persona uses short, gruff sentences and never any pronouns. His therapist says that’s because Hulk is at the level of a small child. Bruce thinks maybe it’s because Hulk hasn’t found a pronoun that fits. There’s the Ned persona who can deliver empowered speeches, Chuck who speaks softly, David who uses only 70s slang, Doc who thinks he’s brilliant but isn’t really, and Lorelei who has a lot to say about being a housewife.

But Bruce never speaks. That doesn’t mean he has nothing to say. He’s probably got plenty, but he keeps it bottled up. He  _can_  talk. He’s knows a smattering of ASL, so it isn’t about that. Sometimes he even writes to his therapist, but mostly they just sit in silence. 

Bruce prefers listening over talking, anyway. Listening to what other people are saying. Not just to their words, but to the meaning behind them. He prefers listening to quiet conversations between old friends, or to the sound of the train passing by, or the melody of the birds, or to his CDs. Yeah, he still has a CD player. He prefers the fact that he has to hold very still to listen, else the CD will skip.

There’s one band he listens to more than anything else, and that’s Heliotrope Bolt. They just seem to  _get_  him. Their music is all soft and lyrical, but they love putting creepy circus music in the background. It’s beautiful and, if Bruce is honest with himself, he likes staring at the picture of the lead singer on the cover of the CD. Clint Barton is hot, okay?

And they’re playing tonight. His therapist said it would be good to go; he would have gone anyway. 

The venue is small, but packed. Bruce is just listening and  _experiencing_. Clint’s voice is so [clear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eO37Hft3B8) and rich. He could carry the song himself, Bruce is sure, but the musicians flanking him are just as good. There’s the red-headed Romanov on guitar, Phillip Coulson on the calliope, and Kate Bishop rounding it out on chimes. It’s heaven. 

Bruce leans in as the music swells. The crowd seems to be funneling him forward. They’re all singing along, and Bruce wishes he could join in but he keeps his mouth shut. He just sways along until the song ends and Clint mugs the microphone, grinning.

“I just want to thank all of our fans,” he says. The crowd shouts their approval. “But I see that not  _everyone_  is singing along. Dude in the purple shirt, come on up here.”

Clint’s pointing at him. Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but obviously he can’t object. People cheer around him (some send him dirty looks), and they charge him forward until he has to stumble on stage. 

He stands there, wide-eyed, as Clint throws an arm around his shoulders and the next song starts up. And, God. It’s his favorite song. 

Probably if Bruce had ever been in a situation like this he’d have a persona who could take over right now. Someone personable and good at crowds. But there’s no one. Just him, mute, on stage as Clint sings the first few lines and then twists the microphone towards him.

Bruce gapes and shakes his head. The crowd is singing along for him, shouldn’t that be enough? But Clint is so handsome, gazing at him from under his eyelashes, and so hopeful that Bruce has to explain. Before he knows what he’s doing he raises his hands and makes a twisting hook sign near his throat.  _Can’t. I’m mute_.

And, gloriously, Clint’s eyes widen like he totally understands and he signs back.  _Sweet. Sign with me_.

They abandon the microphone and just let the background musicians play. As the crowd hums the lyrics they sign together, hands twisting and faces happy and open.

And Bruce listens. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115997104610/you-were-drunk-and-proposed-to-me-but-im-not-sure): you were drunk and proposed to me but i’m not sure how to bring it up now you’re sober bc i totally would have said yes au

The bar was packed, but Bruce and Clint had their little corner.

“Bruce, Bruce.” Clint was sloppy drunk. Half of his sentences were barely formed, the other half were repeats of the first half. He kept leaning on Bruce and pointing at him, like Bruce was swimming before his eyes. He probably was.

“That’s my name,” Bruce said. 

Clint blinked at him as if he’d revealed some astonishing fact about the universe. He leaned in, and then kept leaning and leaning until Bruce had to reach out and help him keep standing. Clint sort of collapsed against him, resting his face in Bruce’s shirt.

“Bruce,” Clint sighed into his chest. “You ‘r so  _nice_.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said. He tried to get Clint standing again but gave up when Clint wrapped his arms around him.

“Seriously.” Clint was talking into his neck now. “I l…like you. You ‘r sweet like, um.” He leaned back until he was gazing hazily into Bruce’s eyes.

“Something sweet?”

“Ex _act_ ly like that. Bruce, let’s do this. Let’s get married. Wanna get married? Let’s get married.” He kissed the stunned Bruce soundly then said, “Hey!” He twirled away and stumbled back towards the bar. “A shot for my Babe! We’re getting married.”

Bruce was still standing in the same spot, frozen in shock, when Clint stumbled back with his drink. 

* * *

 

Bruce stood outside Clint’s room wringing his hands. Really, it was stupid. He was reading too much into Clint’s drunken ramblings. 

Sure, they’d been dating for a while. Quite a while, in fact. Like, years. So yeah, it wasn’t completely off the table. But it hadn’t been  _serious_. Clint had just been drunk, Bruce told himself. And he wasn’t so naive as to assume that drunk words spoke sober thoughts. 

But that didn’t stop Bruce from wanting a lot of things he couldn’t have. He wanted to get down on one knee and ask Clint back. He wanted to bust past the last of Clint’s defenses and gather him up in his arms and protect him. He wanted to do stupid wedding things like worry about decorations and who to invite. He wanted to try ten thousand different kinds of cake and look at floral arrangements until he hated the sight of roses. He wanted to see Clint wearing a metal band on his ring finger, and he wanted to wear one, too. He wanted it to be official somewhere; to have some signed document that proved they were in it for the long haul.

He wanted to knock on Clint’s door and say  _yes._

The door opened before he could.

“Bruce!” Clint said happily. “What’s up, Babe? Looking for me?”

“Erm, yes. I mean, I was just coming to check up on things. So, how are things? Things are good?”

Clint smiled in confusion. “Um, things are super good ‘cause you’re here.” He swaggered forward and slipped his hands into the back pockets of Bruce’s jeans. He leaned in close and kissed him gently. “How are things with you?”

“Good,” Bruce managed to say. He always seemed to lose his train of thought when Clint kissed him. 

“That’s good,” Clint murmured against his lips. “’Cause I need your help.”

“With what?”

Clint pulled back a bit to dig in his pocket, a look of intense concentration on his face. “Just looking for–Ah. Can you hold this for me?”

Bruce held out his hand to take the whatever it was. Clint reached out as well and took his hand between two of his own, turning it over and drawing up his finger to slip on a ring.

Bruce stared at it.

Clint laughed nervously.

“So, um,” Clint started.

“Yes!” Bruce grabbed his boyfriend– _fiance’s_ –head and kissed him madly. “Yes, yes,” he said, and kissed Clint again because he just couldn’t help himself.

“Good, ‘cause I was worried that I hallucinated last night but–”

“Kiss me again?” Bruce interrupted.

Clint smiled and leaned in. The kiss was soft and warm and perfect practice for when they kissed to the tune of  _I do_.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/115998971480/it-is-3am-and-you-thought-it-was-a-good-idea-to): “IT IS 3AM AND YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO LIGHT FIREWORKS? I’LL KILL YOU” au

_Pop pop pop!_

Bruce sits straight up in bed, already angry. He can hear the sound of sparks flying trickling in through his window. He’s pissed, because it’s  _November_  and his neighbor has once again decided to light of fireworks at three in the  _damned morning!_

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It’s no good to get angry, he tells himself. Bruce carefully closes the window and climbs back into bed. There, now he won’t be able to hear when–

_Pop pop pop!_

He stares into the darkness, rage boiling inside him. Seriously?  _Seriously?_ He manages to lie there, very still, until the third firework goes off and then he’s up and slipping on his robe.

Bruce stalks outside in his slippers, fists clenched in the tie of his robe. He walks next door counting to himself but when the fourth firework blasts  _pop pop pop!_  he pretty much loses it.

“What are you doing?” he asks. To an outsider he might appear calm and cool. His voice is measured and even, no trace of how angry he is.

“Doc!” Clint Barton, neighbor and annoyance extraordinaire, looks happy enough to see him. He’s grinning like a school boy and practically vibrating with energy. “How are you?”

“I am awake,” Bruce says mildly. “At three in the morning.”

Clint frowns. “So, not good then?”

“No.” 

Clint stares at him for a long moment, then slowly realization seems to dawn. “Ooh,” he says. Bruce is momentarily grateful; perhaps he won’t have to explain and risk coming off as harsh. But then Clint says, “Did you want to light off some fireworks, too? I’ve got plenty so don’t worry about that.”

Bruce watches as Clint grabs up a particularly nasty looking string of fireworks. He’s flabbergasted. How could Clint honestly think  _that_  was what he wanted?

But then, Clint has good reason to think that. It probably has something to do with the fact that every other time Clint has set off fireworks and Bruce has stumbled out in the middle of the night ready to scold him into next week, Clint has smiled at him with that little gentle look–yes, that one–and Bruce’s heart has melted. Every time Bruce forgets why he’s mad and ends up staring at sparking rockets with Clint until the sun rises. 

Clint told him, once, why he does it. As they sat on the grass and stared at the pink sky, Clint had sighed and said, “When I get the nightmares about it sometimes it’s better to just relive it. Can’t own a gun, so.” He’d trailed off and Bruce had leaned against his shoulder, and they’d quietly waited for daybreak together.

Today, Bruce says, “Do you have any of those sparklers left?” because he can’t stay mad at Clint.

Clint nods. “I saved some just for you.”

They light off fireworks and crackers and sparklers until Clint falls asleep curled up in the grass, a tired Bruce watching over him.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116004855430/hi-i-love-your-fics-could-you-maybe-do-hulkeye): Hi I love your fics! Could you maybe do hulkeye and "I have no idea how we keep bumping into each other, seriously this is a really wide corridor" thanks
> 
> This is also inspired by slowdancingangels‘ [skirt-wearing Bruce Banner](http://slowdancingangels.tumblr.com/post/114972901420/clint-barton-captain-of-the-shield-academy), which is the cutest thing ever. :)

Bruce’s first day of high school starts something like this:

He wakes up at six o’clock and debates what to wear for an hour, even though he’d laid out his t-shirt and skirt the night before. Eventually the bus rolls up and he can’t wait any longer. He settles on his flouncy green skirt with the little leaves and branches embroidered on it, because it makes him feel like he can tackle anything, and then he boards the bus. No one seems to notice him as he hides behind his curly hair all the way to school, then to his locker. It’s as he’s dashing to his first class that he runs smack into Clint Barton, who everyone knows is set to be quarterback of the football team by his junior year.

Bruce goes flailing to the ground, pencils and notebooks scattering everywhere. With a squeak he looks up at Clint, who hardly seems to have noticed the hit. 

“Sorry!” Bruce says far too loud. He anticipates mocking jokes and hatred because, geeze, he’s a guy in a skirt. He  _gets_  that people don’t get it. But he’d hoped to make it through one day without a black eye from a footballer. 

“Don’t worry, Freckles.” Clint reaches down and helps him to his feet.

As Bruce stands there, stunned, Clint smirks at him and gives a little wave before disappearing in the crowd. The bell rings and Bruce has to gather up his spilled supplies and rush to class.

* * *

 

The sixth day of school, in the middle of lunch Bruce turns and trips over his untied shoelace and falls into Clint’s lap. His milk carton goes flying and lands with a splatter on the floor; his pizza lands squarely on Clint’s shirt. Immediately, the table erupts into laughter.

“Oh,” Bruce says as he fumbles to his feet. “Oh, oh I’m so sorry.” He blushes furiously as Clint’s friends laugh at him.

“Aw, shirt,” Clint says sadly as he peels the pizza slice off himself. He hands it back to Bruce awkwardly and wipes off his fingers on a stray napkin. “Don’t worry about it.” He shares a look with one of the guys laughing and the guy trails off into little hiccuping  _ha has_.

Before Bruce can say anything a kind lunch lady comes up with a washcloth for the milk. When Bruce turns back around, Clint is busy again.

* * *

 

On the eighteenth day of school Bruce steps out of the bathroom. He’s busy making sure his skirt is hanging correctly and not looking where he’s going, and so runs directly into the wall of muscle that is Clint. 

“Oof,” he says.

“Hey, watch out.” Clint’s hands wrap around his arms and steadies him. Little electric frissons shoot through Bruce’s body at the touch. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” Bruce says instead of an answer. It’s habit.

Clint grins at him. “No worries, Freckles.” He pats Bruce once on the arm and walks past him, whistling as he goes.

Bruce adjusts his skirt and heads to class.

* * *

 

On the nineteenth day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway. They get tangled up and Clint has to help Bruce pick up his scattered books as Bruce says, “Sorry, oh, um, sorry.”

* * *

 

On the twentieth day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway. Clint holds his arm to keep him from falling over and it makes Bruce hyperaware of the contact for the rest of the day.

* * *

 

On the twenty-first day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway and Clint calls him “Freckles” again.

* * *

 

On the twenty-second day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway and says, “My name is Bruce” all in a rush that has Clint smiling softly at him and making his stomach do flip flops.

* * *

 

On the twenty-third day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway and they stand and chat until the hallway is empty and the principal comes to scold them.

* * *

 

On the twenty-fourth day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway and Clint gives him his locker number on a little piece of folded notebook paper. 

* * *

 

On the twenty-fifth day of school Bruce runs into Clint in the hallway. He starts to get suspicious.

“Are you running into me on purpose?” He stands with his hands on his hips, a firecracker of anger. He’s wearing his blue gingham skirt today so he’s feeling tough and strict.

“Aw, Bruce.” Clint rubs at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “What’re you asking me that for?”

“Because you’ve run into me,  _literally_ , everyday for a week. That can’t be coincidence.” He tilts his head in a way he knows makes his glasses flash dangerously. “I’m a scientist. I notice patterns.”

“Um.” Clint shuffles around. He looks at all the other students who have taken an interest in what should be a  _tête-à-tête_. 

“Is this a, a jerk football thing? Are you trying to mess with me?” Bruce points at him angrily. “Because I don’t like to be messed with.”

“I’m not trying to mess with you!” Clint exclaims. He holds up his hand in surrender and all the tension goes out of his shoulders. “I, um, I  _like_  you, Bruce.”

Around them, other students go  _oooh_ in unison _._

“Oh.” Bruce blinks at him. He thinks about it. “Well, I like you, too.”

“Really?” Clint looks ecstatic. “Can I ask you out then?”

“Sure.”

There’s silence for a moment, then Clint realizes what’s going on. “Do you want to go out with me?”

“I dunno,” Bruce says slowly. He smirks to let Clint know he’s just kidding, and Clint smiles back. “Maybe ask me again next time we run into each other.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116272004995/i-know-this-is-awkward-my-friend-saw-that-i-was): “I know this is awkward, my friend saw that I was alone at the dance and they pulled you over to dance with me and I’m sorry” au

They were playing [Funkytown](https://youtu.be/xF77Y1JLScc).

Clint told himself this wasn’t even a good dancing song. He also told himself a bunch of other lies. Like, that he didn’t want to dance anyway. That he hated dancing. That he was happy standing in the corner nursing a glass of punch and his broken heart. He told himself he was strong and independent and didn’t need no man.

He stared morosely into his bright red punch and sighed. He was all alone at the biggest school dance of the year, listening to music that hadn’t been popular for decades, and pretending that he was as popular as his fake smiles lead people to believe. 

“Bruce, you  _have_  to dance.”

Clint glanced up, desperate for a distraction. He saw Betty Ross–popular, honor roll, and vice president of the science club–standing with her hands on her hips and glaring at Bruce Banner–quiet, loner, probably a science geek? Clint couldn’t remember much about Bruce. He wasn’t one for talking, or hanging out with people, or participating in anything that involved social interaction really. It was odd that he was even here. Betty must have invited him.

Bruce mumbled something that Clint couldn’t hear, but Betty only shook her head. “Um, yeah, everyone is dancing. You should dance! You might like it.” She nudged him towards the dance floor, which was awash with bodies writhing to the beat. He didn’t budge. He shook his head and glanced around frantically, finally lighting on Clint.

Clint met his gaze and raised his glass with a sardonic smirk. He toasted Bruce, who was looking at him like a deer in the headlights, then knocked back the rest of his punch. Clint watched as Bruce pointed him out.

Betty whipped around, eyes narrowed. When she saw Clint, though, she grinned. “Clint Barton,” she said, pointing at him. “You aren’t dancing.”

“Nope,” he said. He sprawled back on the condiment table. “Your powers of observation are truly astounding.”

She ignored him. “You’re the only one. Well, you and Bruce.”

“Your point?”

“My point–” She cut herself off and her eyes lit up with a truly evil glint.

Clint wasn’t quite sure what happened. He vaguely registered Bruce quietly protesting, then Betty grabbing his wrist and tugging him out on the floor before shoving Clint into him. They tripped and stumbled, and then they were center stage both standing awkwardly and staring at one another.

“Sorry,” Bruce said instantly.

Clint stared at him. “Do you know how to dance?”

“No.” Someone stumbled into Bruce and Bruce stumbled into Clint. Clint caught him and kept him standing. He tried to look around to glare at Betty–how had he gotten roped into this?–but she was no where in sight.

“Um,” said Bruce.

Clint realized he was still holding him tightly. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to learn,” he said as he carefully set Bruce upright. 

Bruce instantly laced his fingers together at his waist, pulling nervously. Clint tried to get into the rythym (just  _dance_  he ordered himself), but he kept getting distracted by how Bruce wasn’t dancing, and was instead just standing there with his soft brown eyes downcast.

Clearly, Clint was going to have to pick up the slack.

“You need to relax,” Clint ordered. Immediately, Bruce tensed more. “No, no, no.” Clint grabbed his shoulders and forced them down. He kept a firm grip as he demonstrated what it meant to just chill. 

He wasn’t good at this–at pretending to be cool. But something about having a person even more lost than he was gave him strength. Slowly– _painfully slowly_ – Bruce relaxed. He even wiggled a little to the music, his gaze scattering around to their classmates smashed in on all sides of them. He looked slightly panicked, but seemed to realized no one was looking at them.

The track changed to something slower, and Clint couldn’t resist. He smirked as he plastered himself to a suddenly-jumpy Bruce and wrapped him up in a hug. “What?” Clint asked, innocent. “It’s a slow dance.” He tipped his head to indicate the other students wrapping arms around one another and staring longingly into each other’s eyes.

“…Are you sure?” Bruce asked, but he did carefully rest his hands on Clint’s hips. 

“You worry too much,” Clint said, ignoring the hypocritical nature of his own words. “Just relax.”

It felt nice to just hold someone. Bruce was the perfect size for Clint to rest his chin on Bruce’s shoulder. He felt Bruce’s hands slowly move up to rest on his back, light and unsure. Clint just kept swaying in time with the music. Bruce smelled nice, and was slowly relaxing again, so Clint was happy.

“I like you,” Bruce whispered.

“What?”

Bruce jerked away from him, holding very still despite the music, to stare at him crazily. “I mean,” he said quickly. “I like this. Dancing. This is okay. I could take it or leave it. You probably want to leave–sorry about Betty making us dance, you know, she just, she. Um. She’s always saying I have to try more things, meet people. Dancing is a way to meet people, although I think I could meet plenty of people far away from here so I’ll just go if I’m bothering you.”

Clint blinked. “That was,” he started to say  _adorable_ , but he realized Bruce would take it the wrong way and so he switched tracks. “Bruce, will you dance with me?”

“We already are dancing,” Bruce pointed out. He seemed shell-shocked.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, duh, but by force. Now I’m asking.”

“Oh.” Bruce blushed furiously. “Um, yes. Okay.”

Clint folded Bruce back into his arms and rested his chin on Bruce’s shoulder again–it really was the perfect place to rest. They kept swaying slowly together even when the music switched back to some hyper disco number and the crowd started to jump. 

Clint decided he liked dancing after all.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116625135005/you-would-always-randomly-pull-me-up-to-dance-or): You would always randomly pull me up to dance or just gently hold me while swaying but now I’m standing here alone (up to you why they are alone)
> 
> Warning: Major character death.

Bruce never thought he would fall in love, but it was strangely easy.

Love was about all those easy things. Reading side-by-side on a rainy day. Gentle laughter over chocolate chip pancakes. Curling up behind him on freshly-washed sheets. Smiling as he speared another sausage with an arrow. Taking his hand as he pulled Bruce into the center of the living room and just swayed in time with some internal beat.

Bruce never knew the beat, but they fell easily into step with one another.

Until,

Clint was smiling as he said, “Sorry, Freckles.”

Bruce didn’t cry. He tried to say, “I’m sorry,” but he choked. He held very still and shook and shook until Clint raised one gaunt hand, bones draped in pale thin skin. He took Clint’s hand and held on, just held on. 

“I did this to you,” Bruce said.

Clint said, “Every moment I was with you was worth it.”

The doctors said, “The radiation exposure is too severe.”

Three days later Bruce stood in the center of the living room, alone. He tried to dance but his feet were heavy; he could not find the beat. 

Bruce did not cry.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116626004575/we-live-in-a-futuristic-era-where-youre-a): We live in a futuristic era where you’re a scientist and I’m you assistant. An experiment goes horribly wrong resulting in my death. You try to put my brain in a robot and it works but it’s not the same.
> 
> Warning: a fate worse than death.

“No,” says Bruce, and he tries to step forward but he is rooted to the spot, the image of Clint’s body sprawled across the floor burned into his mind. He says, “My God,” and notes the hand-shaped bruises across Clint’s body, bigger than his, but, “It worked.”

He’s found a way to create a monster, and all it cost was his love.

He kneels at Clint’s side and already his mind whirs. “I can fix this,” he tells himself, tells Clint’s body bruised and broken. “I can fix you.”

And then Bruce flies into action.

Ice is first. Cold and calculating; all the things Bruce pretends to be. Neurons, wrinkled and grey, rest there, preserved as Bruce works. His hands fly over wires and metal, twisting together data chips and desperately working, working, working until his eyes are heavily lidded, desperation flowing through his veins alongside the drugs that keep him awake.

It’s days later, maybe, he’s lost track, but Bruce has done it.

It doesn’t look exactly like Clint. It’s face is plastic, eyes vacant. It’s hair is Clint’s real hair, but something is off about it. It is Clint’s height, but doesn’t stand like him. It has Clint’s hands, but they do not fit when Bruce attempts to hold them. Bruce hopes that the final piece of the puzzle, that three pounds that is Clint Barton, will make the difference. 

Maybe Bruce is insane. He doesn’t think so. He thinks it will work, and so he does it. He doesn’t second guess because he never does. He’s a scientist. He tests and experiments and  _proves_  beyond a shadow of a doubt. He is caring, loving as he pulls Clint from the ice and places him within the body of the android. He connects the wires with steady hands, each one interlaced with neurons. Then he steps back. He takes a deep breath. He waits. His hands are shaking now.

It’s eyes take on new light, but they are still vacant. Staring. It stands. It stumbles towards Bruce like a child learning to walk and Clint opens its mouth and says, “Bruce?”

Bruce says, “I saved you.” His voice is dry, wispy. Like a reverent prayer he hopes will be answered. “I saved you, Clint.”

Clint forces it to walk. Its face twists–fear, anger, disbelief. Pre-programmed responses. Bruce has done a lot of unnatural things in the name of science. This is nothing. 

“This is nothing,” Bruce says. “This is fine.”

“Bruce,” Clint makes it say, but then it can go no further. Bruce has programmed it to speak no ill of him. Clint can think it, if he wishes, but not voice it. Clint makes it say, “Bruce,” again, but nothing else.

“This is fine,” Bruce says.

He says it again as Clint tries to move it away but can’t. Maybe it will become true.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116626563725/im-youre-guardian-angel-whos-been-breaking-the): I’m you’re guardian angel who’s been breaking the rules and keeping you alive longer than you should be and as punishment I have to watch you die.
> 
> Warning: Major character death

Clint Barton would do anything for Bruce.

When Bruce was four and fell and skinned his knee, Clint heard his cry. It was his first call and he wanted to do well, and so he healed Bruce’s injury before his tears could fall. Bruce had blinked, nodded, and then looked up and  _seen_  Clint.

In the Angel’s handbook it said that only one sort of person could see their guardian: those destined to fall in love with them.

So maybe that was why Clint stayed by him. Wrapped his pale, purple wings around Bruce’s tiny, shaking body and cried with him about the death of his mother. Twisted the system to drive it towards Brian Banner, to arrest him. Traveled the long journey with Bruce as he grew into an awkward teenager. Held his hand as he waited beside a bomb in the basement of his school. Flew high with him above the city, gazing at the tiny people like ants against the pavement. Talked with him about girls as his own heart broke in two. Saved his life when radiation should have killed him. Kept death at bay across seven continents and against a dozen armies.

Held a desperate Bruce close as he cried, “I’m alone.”

Said, “No, I’m here for you,” and kissed him.

Maybe that was why.

Why they lay side-by-side, meditating together, Clint’s wings framing them on each side. Fingers interlaced until Bruce looked at him and said, “Clint, how long have I been alive?”

And Clint said, “Not long enough,” and he was desperate.

Traveled those continents again, and again, until decades had passed and new armies had risen, fallen, and Clint had kept Bruce alive and Bruce asked, “Clint, how long until I die?”

And Clint said, “Never, if we’re lucky.”

Took to the stars as their Earth fell apart around them, mushrooms blossoming in the sky. Kept Bruce breathing with no oxygen and found a place so quiet and empty that Bruce turned to him and said, “Clint, will you let me go?”

And Clint said, “No,” and he was desperate.

But it was too late, those words echoed across the stars and wriggled into the ears of Clint’s handler and it was decided. Clint curled his great wings around Bruce, held him so tight and whispered about all the centuries they had lived together. All the centuries they had left, if only Bruce would stay with him. And Bruce said, “I love you.”

And Clint said, “Please, I love you to,” and wept as Bruce trickled away beneath his fingertips, scattered across those stars and became once again one with the universe.

Never again one with Clint.

Clint Barton would do anything for Bruce, except let him go. And so that decision was made for him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116681020055/i-sold-my-soul-to-bring-you-back-to-life-after): I sold my soul to bring you back to life after your untimely death and I only have a month left with you so I’m trying to make it count
> 
> Warning: death. One more sad chapter then the next is happier I swear.

“What will you do?” the snake hissed into his ear.

Bruce held Clint’s hand–cold, lifeless, empty–and whispered back, “Anything.”

* * *

 

Thirty days, the snake said. And then Bruce would be drug down, cold and deep, into the darkness.

* * *

 

For three days Bruce just held him. Placed soft kisses on Clint’s head, traced the scars littering his body, felt the life beneath his skin, counted his heartbeats and measured them against his own. He held Clint and Clint cried and said those terrible, painful things like, “Why would you do this to me?”

Bruce had no answer, save for, “I can only do this for you.”

On the fourth day Clint stood up and wiped the salt from his face and plastered on the sort of painfully fake smile that Bruce usually wore and said, “We’re going out.”

They went for ice cream. It tasted like sawdust to Bruce, until he saw Clint methodically eating his coffee-and-toffee double scoop. It made Bruce smile, just a little, more at the memory of their first time getting ice cream together than anything. But it was enough that a weight lifted from his shoulders and when Clint smiled back he laughed, elated. 

The wound up laughing until their ice cram melted, sadness flowing off of them like waves as the absurdity of it all hit them and they were left with nowhere to go. So they went nowhere.

They went nowhere to a dance club that night, and aimlessly did nothing as they slow danced to booming techno. It was the sort of thing that usually made Bruce anxious, but that night he was calm. Bruce held Clint close and breathed his scent and thought, “You’re alive,” so much that eventually he said it out loud and Clint pulled back with a sad smile.

“So are you.”

“Then let’s make the most of it.”

They didn’t sleep. They danced into the morning and watched the sunrise together, fingers tangled. On the fifth day they lay out on the terrace and gazed at the sky as it shifted pink then blue then white then red, exchanging thoughts when they occurred and kisses when the sun got too bright and they had to close their eyes. Bruce mapped each inch of Clint’s right hand with his own, cataloged each callous and line, memorized his warm solid weight and broad, square fingers.

And on the sixth day and beyond he moved on to the rest of Clint.

Bruce learned the breadth of Clint’s shoulders and the strength of his hold. Learned the line of his waist. The way he walked with his toes pointed out. His crooked smile and soft lips. The sadness in his blue eyes; the crinkle he got when he pretended to smile. The way their hands fit together like puzzle pieces–not because they were made that way, but because they had each learned how the other held himself, learned to perfectly match.

Clint memorized back. The triangle of freckles splayed across his left cheekbone. The one curl at the nape of his neck that went backwards. His quirky right shoulder that still hitched higher than the other from years of leaning over a microscope and twirling knobs. The jut of his hip bones and the knobs of his knees. 

On the twelfth day Bruce kissed Clint all over and said, “I love you” until his voice gave out and Clint picked up the slack by saying it back.

Somewhere along the line they lost count of the days.

They didn’t travel because they didn’t need to. Clint could travel across the stars by tracing Bruce’s constellation of freckles; Bruce could travel the world by listening to Clint’s stories. They shared things they’d never shared with anyone, and would never share again. Things that would be lost when the clock spun around once more and the snake slithered its way back into their lives.

One day–the thirtieth day, although they didn’t know it–Bruce glanced up and said, “Oh.”

Clint grabbed him so hard his hands would have left bruises. “Bruce, you aren’t leaving me.”

Bruce’s gaze went hazy. “I-I think I am.”

“No. I’ll, I’ll do what you did. I can buy us another month. I’ll go with you. Just, just give me something to work with here, Bruce. Please stay with me.”

Bruce shook his head.

Desperately, Clint shook him. “This wasn’t enough time,” he demanded.

Slowly, Bruce raised his hand to rest against Clint’s face. “It never is.”

Clint leaned in–for one last kiss, one last hail mary attempt, but then–

When Bruce opened his eyes there was darkness and he was alone. So he closed his eyes again and remembered. The shape of Clint’s body against his, arms circling him in support, the smell of coffee and bow wax and  _Clint_. The gentle brush of callouses, the press of a crooked smile against chapped lips, the depth of his voice. Remembered love.

Bruce remembered for a long time.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gilli-chan [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116683557170/i-know-this-werent-on-any-prompt-posts-but-could): I know this weren't on any prompt posts, but could you write HulkEye, where Clint is a new caregiver at an asylum where Bruce is a patient. The other caregivers always tied Bruce to his bed when one of his other personas came out. Clint doesn't know that and lets him paint a picture instead. (which actually help in calming Bruce down)

“SMASH.”

Clint jumped. “Jeeze, Banner, why so loud?” He looked around for another orderly to help, but he was the only one in the commons with Banner.

Banner scoffed at him. “Not puny Banner.”

“Right,” Clint said as he surveyed the scene. He cataloged the man in the pale, thin hospital robe. Banner had scattered his lunch across the floor and was now trying to pick up the chair, which was bolted down. “What are you doing?”

Banner growled at him. “Smash,” he insisted, like Clint was an idiot.

“Oh-kay,” Clint said slowly. He watched the smaller man struggle with the chair. “What’s the point of that?”

“Puny table,” Banner said with a grunt.

“Oh, so you’re trying to smash the  _table._ Why pick up the chair then?”

Banner gave him that  _you idiot_  look again. With a huff he turned from the chair and tried to punch the table, his entire face going white as a sheet as he made contact.

“Whoa! Okay, that’s enough of that.” Clint jumped into action. With no other orderlies on duty it was up to him to make sure Banner didn’t hurt himself. Although he didn’t know Banner’s chart very well, he could tell this was some sort of dissociative episode. Best to just work through it.

Banner made a sad face. “Smash?”

“I’ll get you something to smash,” Clint promised. He tried to herd Banner away from the table, but Banner shied away from his touch. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m just going to get some supplies. Will you help me?”

Banner eyed him warily, but did eventually nod.

Clint decided not to try touching Banner again. Instead he lead the way across the deserted commons area to the art locker. Along the way he glanced outside and saw the rest of the hospital residents all playing happily, surveyed by the stoic Ross. He tried to get Ross’ attention–as the orderly in charge, this was really Ross’ problem–but Ross didn’t see him. Resigned, Clint got out a ream of paper and a handful of markers. 

Banner sat cross-legged on the floor, grabbed one of the markers, and snapped it in half with a decisive  _crack_.

“Aw, marker,” Clint said as green ink spilled out onto Banner’s hands. “That’s probably coming out of my paycheck.”

Banner growled at the broken plastic.

“Here.” Clint grabbed a piece of paper. “I’ll show you. You want to smash the table, right?” When Banner nodded, Clint quickly sketched out the shape of a table with a brown marker. It wasn’t a great drawing, but it would do. “Now take it and smash it.”

Banner looked at the paper, then back to Clint, confusion obvious. “Smash?”

“Yes, smash.” Clint pointed at the picture. “Rip it apart, destroy it. Smash it as much as you want.”

Clint watched as Banner carefully reached out and snatched up the paper. He held it close to his chest like he was afraid Clint would take it from him. After a moment Banner seemed to realize that wasn’t Clint’s agenda, and he gleefully ripped the paper in half. Then again, and again, into smaller and smaller pieces that he crumpled up and scattered across the floor. He pounded at them with his fists, gaunt face curled into a terrifying snarl.

“That’s perfect,” Clint said as Banner panted happily. “What else do you want to smash?”

Banner considered. “Ross.”

Clint blinked in surprise, but he did draw a tiny stick figure of Ross with an enormous mustache and watched Banner rend it apart with relish. He kept drawing what Banner requested: pill bottles, guns, the color red (that was difficult until Clint found the red marker), and books. Banner destroyed them all until they were surrounded by ripped paper and Banner seemed calmer, more relaxed.

Clint kept drawing because it was kind of fun. He drew a little picture of Banner’s face with its myriad of freckles, then drew himself in his orderly scrubs firing an arrow into a target. Banner lay on the ground beside him and reached out to poke the drawing.

“Cupid?” he asked.

Clint laughed. “No, that’s me. I used to be pretty good with a bow.”

Banner shook his head, once again looking at Clint like he was stupid. “No,” he said. “Cupid.”

Clint smiled. “Sure, I guess I can be Cupid if you want.”

“Hulk,” Banner said, and smacked himself on the chest. He was grinning now, feral and toothy.

“Hulk?” Clint asked, then it clicked. “Oh, Hulk. It’s nice to meet you.”

Banner’s persona–Hulk, apparently–already seemed bored with him. Or maybe he was embarrassed. Either way he rolled over and curled into a little ball, intent on ignoring Clint. Clint let him do it because he wasn’t hurting anyone. He drew until Banner suddenly sat up straight and whirled around, eyes terrified.

“Oh, God. Did I hurt you?”

“No?” Clint shrugged. “It was just one of your personas. Perfectly normal.”

Banner looked at him like he was crazy, but it was completely different from the annoyed looks Hulk had given him. “What? I–the other–what?”

“Your Hulk persona? Has that one been documented?” Clint asked. When Banner nodded mutely, Clint gestured at the piles of torn paper. “He just needed to let off some steam. We drew and wrecked some paper.”

“I’ve never…” Banner trailed off, then took a deep breath. “Usually when the other guy comes out they, um, they tie me down so I don’t hurt anyone.”

“What?” Clint asked, aghast. That didn’t seem like sound medicine, not with such an easy-going persona like Hulk. “Who’ve you hurt?”

Banner shrugged and averted his gaze. “Ross’s daughter came in once. I don’t remember her, but I guess…”

“Sounds like he’s got a vendetta,” Clint said. He shifted his papers around, thinking. “I’ll have a talk with him, and if he doesn’t lighten up I can contact the hospital director and get you moved out of his ward.”

“Wh-you would do that?” Banner looked so stunned and happy that it made Clint a little uncomfortable.

“Sure, don’t mention it, seriously. Um.” He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off this heartfelt moment. “You–Hulk liked this picture. Maybe you can keep it for him. Er, until he gets reintegrated or whatever. Whatever your goal is with that. I mean, just take it.”

He shoved the drawing of himself firing a bow and arrow at Banner and stood up quickly as Banner took it. He dusted himself off and strolled away to get a broom. When he got back Banner was already up, staring out the window at the courtyard below. Clint caught him glancing at the picture twice, though, as he swept up the scattered paper.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116688249000/hulkeye-prompt-for-ao3-after-three-sad-chapters-i): Hulkeye prompt for AO3. After three sad chapters I would like something warm and fuzzy. Somewhere where Hulk is incredibly affectionate and gentle with his favorite person - Clint.
> 
> Hopefully this makes up for the sadness. <3

So maybe things looked bad.

It was always weird what he thought about when he was about to die. (Equally weird was the shear number of times he had almost died, and how there was now a pattern to his thoughts.) Today he was thinking about how he’d left the stove on, and how nice it had been to kiss Bruce for the first time last night, and how shiny this gun was, and shit shitshit _shitshit!_

“Now, come on,” Clint said, but when the guy cocked the gun he shut up real quick.

“Bro, you got a real problem, bro,” the tracksuit said. “That problem is your big mouth, bro. Maybe I take care of it for you, no problem.” The fifty other tracksuit guys all laughed like that was a hilarious joke.

Clint had a momentary stab of disappointment when he realized that, if he were to die here, he wouldn’t get to kiss Bruce again. He pouted.

The tracksuit guy took it the wrong way, glaring at him. “You got a problem with my solution, bro?”

“No, no no no,” Clint said. He waved his hands around feebly and tried to think of a way out. “Just remembering that I left the stove on.”

The tracksuit guy blinked and opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could get a word out a thin, shaking hand appeared over his shoulder and tapped him.

“Excuse me,” Bruce said. Clint grinned, elated. 

The tracksuit turned around, confused, and then Bruce grew nine feet tall and punched him right in the face.

“ _NO HURT CUPID!”_  Hulk bellowed as the tracksuit flew in a delicate arc across town. Hulk curled his hands into fists at his side and panted as the other tracksuits fled.

“Nice one, jade jaws!” Clint said. He clapped Hulk on the shoulder and winced as it pulled at his bruised muscles.

Hulk immediately knelt beside him, wavering with worry. “Cupid hurt?” he asked. His deep, powerful voice was strangely vulnerable.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Clint reassured him. 

Hulk wasn’t convinced. He reached out very carefully and offered his hand for Clint to sit on. Clint obliged, and Hulk lifted him up for an examination. He carefully lifted Clint’s arms, rumbling to himself about the cuts scattered across Clint’s knuckles. 

“It’s okay,” Clint told him softly as Hulk pouted at the state Clint was in. “They’re just scratches. I’ll be okay.”

“Cupid not tough like Hulk,” he said. Weirdly, it didn’t sound like he was bragging. It was more like he was scared.

“I know.” Clint reached out and rested his hand on Hulk’s face. His pale, blunt fingers were dwarfed by Hulk’s frown. He tried to be comforting. “I’m not indestructible, but that’s why I have you, right?”

Hulk growled. “Cupid stay safe.”

“I always try.” When Hulk rolled his eyes at that Clint said, “Hey! I do try!”

Hulk ignored his protests and pulled him even closer into an all-encompassing hug. Hulk was warm, and although his skin was rough it was strangely soothing. “Safe,” Hulk rumbled again.

Clint hugged him back, barely able to get his hands high enough to reach each of Hulk’s shoulders. “For you, I really will try.”

“Promise?” Hulk asked into his hair, but already his voice was different. Less deep, more human.

“I promise,” Clint said, and he held Hulk close as he shrunk back into Bruce and collapsed into an exhausted pile of limbs. He carefully lay Bruce down to rest and considered him, whispering once again to his boyfriend, “I promise.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elfwreck [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116696670855/story-prompt-clint-and-bruce-havent-figured-out): Story prompt: Clint and Bruce haven't figured out that they're dating, but everyone else knows.
> 
> Special guest stars! :D

Steve was at the bar when Bruce shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the tired lines around his eyes. He made for the coffee pot and blinked in confusion when he saw the carafe was gone. 

“I think Clint has it,” Steve said. He pointed with his pencil at where Clint was slumped over the table, coffee carafe half full and clutched in his hands.

Bruce nodded mutely, still blinking like he was barely staying awake. 

Steve watched, smiling slightly, as Bruce shuffled the rest of the way to the table and gently nudged Clint. Although there were nine open chairs, Clint moved over so that Bruce could perch on the edge of his chair. They sat hip-to-hip, sharing the coffee carafe between them in companionable silence.

After a moment, Steve felt awkward watching, like he was intruding in their lives. It was such a private moment as their hands brushed over the black plastic of the carafe that Steve had to look away. He still couldn’t resist drawing it in his sketchbook–Bruce’s long fingers framed against Clint’s blunt ones, a snapshot of their relationship.

* * *

 

Natasha and Clint were practicing in Tony’s new parkour gym when Bruce wandered in, looking confused.

“…Did Tony remodel again?”

“He did it last night,” Clint said, sounding excited. He bounded off the wall and did a flip, landing next to Natasha with a little wobble. She smiled at him. “Isn’t it cool, Bruce?”

Bruce smiled faintly as well. “Yes, but I was hoping to do some yoga…I’ll just go to my room.”

Clint’s face fell, and so Natasha rushed to say, “You can still do your yoga. We’ll stay out of your way.”

“Oh, thank you.” Bruce looked nervous for a second, like he still wanted to pull away, but then he shored up and nodded. He picked a spot in the corner and drew his feet together and folded his hands in front of himself like he was praying. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before moving into the next pose.

Clint’s eyes were glued to Bruce as he shifted. Natasha smirked at him as he watched. She debated elbowing him and asking him to keep practicing with her, but decided against it. She went back to the parkour herself and let Clint stand at the edge of the gym, carefully spotting Bruce as he moved through his routine.

* * *

 

“On your six,” Clint said into Sam’s communicator.

“God it,” Sam acknowledged. He banked sharply left and the AIMbot couldn’t compensate. It shattered against a building. “Thanks, Hawkeye.”

“No problem. Birdbrains gotta stick together.” His awkward laugh trickled in through the comm. 

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. He scanned the terrain, pleased at how few AIMbots were left. He started to suggest they begin cleanup when the still-open comm sparked to life again.

“Whoa!” Clint gasped.

Sam whipped to the right and headed for Clint, he was about to ask if Clint was all right but then–

“What’s up big guy?”

Sam relaxed in mid air and drew up sharply, hovering. It was only Hulk, and everyone knew Hulk would never hurt Clint. Over the comm, Clint laughed again. This time it was softer, a gentle chuckle.

“Easy there. I’m not hurt, see?” There was the sound of snuffling and Hulk made a disbelieving sound. “No, it’s true. Hey! I need that. The uniform stays  _on_.”

Blushing, Sam switched his comm to a different channel. He shook his head and flew towards the rendezvous. He’d never understand their relationship, but as long as they were happy he was happy for them.

* * *

 

“Bruuuuce,” Tony whined, flopping on the lab bench and pouting at his science bro. “How come we never hang out anymore?”

Bruce looked at him over the rims of his glasses. “What are you talking about? We’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in the lab together.”

“Yeah we do lab stuff, but we never hang out. When’s the last time we went joy riding? Suit or car, I don’t care, I just need joy rides in my life. I don’t say this often but there’s more to life than science and, okay, maybe Pepper’s been getting on my case about getting outside and into the sun more, but still. The point stands that ninety-nine percent of our interaction involves throwing equations at each other and shouting  _Eureka!”_

_“_ Seventy-five percent at max,” Bruce countered, but he was already looking in his microscope again. 

Tony opened his mouth to complain some more, but he was interrupted as Clint strolled in. He pulled his bow and quiver off his shoulder and set it down in front of Bruce. 

“Hey,” Clint said, shifting a little awkwardly.

“Um, hi,” Bruce said back, ducking his head and blushing.

Tony watched, fascinated.

“I’ve got some new bow specs for you to look at,” Clint said. He gazed at Bruce longingly. 

“I’d be happy to look at y–look at them for you.” Bruce blushed deeper and reached for the bow. A little dance ensued where Bruce tried to take the bow without touching Clint too much. Tony assumed that if they did touch he’d have to leave, because he didn’t want to see them make out on his shop floor no matter how hot that would have been.

“Thanks.” Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair, grinning broadly. “For, um, looking at those for me.”

“Of course,” Bruce breathed. He looked up and that was a mistake, because their eyes locked and they didn’t seem able to look away from one another.

“So, uh,” Clint said breathlessly. “I’ll see you at lunch?”

“Yes. I have to teach you how to make curry.”

“I can’t wait.” Clint took a step back, then another. He still seemed to have difficulty looking away from Bruce. 

Just as he started to turn, Tony piped up. “Hey, Clint.”

Clint looked startled. “Oh, hey Tony. How, how are you?”

Tony grinned. “Doing great.”

Clint gave him an awkward half wave and smiled at the once-again blushing Bruce before turning and leaving the lab. 

“That’s it.” Tony snapped his fingers. “A double date.”

“With who?” Bruce asked. “You and Pepper are the only couple. Unless you count Thor and Jane, but she’s all the way in New Mexico and he’s in Asgard until next week.”

“Oh, Bruce,” Tony said with a sad sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

* * *

 

Thor strolled over to where Clint and Bruce were standing ridiculously close to one another, each staring into the other’s eyes and exchanging silly little grins.

“My friends!” Thor exclaimed, clapping Clint on the back. He would have clapped Bruce on the back as well, but Bruce always seemed to react poorly to that sort of thing. “When is the ceremony?”

“Ceremony?” Bruce asked quietly. He gently rubbed Clint’s back where Thor had patted him and Clint leaned into the touch with a relaxed sigh.

“Yes, the ceremony,” Thor said. “For your nuptials?”

They both stared at him for a second, blinking. Then it washed over them in a wave. Bruce gaped and turned to Clint, who gaped back. Bruce didn’t drop his hand from Clint’s shoulder.

“They think we’re–”

“That’s why Tony–”

“Because we’ve been spending–”

“Is that why you were looking–”

They both paused, blinking. Then Clint broke into a huge grin. Bruce pulled himself into a prim and proper pose and smiled at Thor.

“If you’ll excuse us, Thor,” Bruce said. “I believe Clint and I have something to discuss.”

“Certainly,” Thor said, pretending to be confused although he wasn’t. “I await your return.”

“Actually, don’t wait up,” Clint said as he slid his hand into Bruce’s back pocket. “We may be talking for a while.”

Thor grinned to himself as they walked away. Finally, his friends had realized what the rest of them had known for so long. 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116708351455/so-youve-probably-seen-the-scene-where-bruce-and): So you've probably seen the scene where Bruce and Nat have that touching moment and how she touches him. What if that touch thing she did to his arm was something his mom use to do to calm him down or sing a song to it? Like maybe she sang the itsty bitsty spider and trailed her fingers down his arms pretending they were spider legs and maybe Bruce told Nat that or she figured it out on her own? you can make it hulkeye and have clint be the one touching bruce after a hulk out
> 
> a little comfort for all that hurt.

Clint was only human. He could get jealous just like anyone else, and he was man enough to admit it.

He had his back to the tree, left hand holding fast his bow as his right palmed for another arrow. It seemed like slow motion as he watched Natasha approach the Hulk. Hulk was bent double, still panting heavily from the exertion of fighting Bruce enough to get out. Slowly, Natasha raised her hands and sang.

“Вверх по водостоку паучок ползёт.”

The tune was unmistakable, really. The itsy, bitsy spider. But slower and more melodic. Hulk whipped his head around and glared at her. She reached out.

“Вдруг он вниз скатился, это дождик льёт.”

Hulk huffed. He lifted his hand, palm up to the sky. Gently, she rested her fingertips on his wrist and Clint felt a pang of jealousy shoot through him.

“Cолнышко вышло и стало пригревать,” she sang as she trailed her hand like a walking spider down to Hulk’s palm. Hulk blinked at her in surprise and his breathing began to even out. 

There were snowflakes caught on Hulk’s eyelashes. They broke free as Hulk blinked and began to shrink.

Natasha finished, “И вверх по водостоку ползет паук опять.” She kept holding Hulk’s hand as it grew small, soft, and pink. 

Bruce went down heavily in the snow and Clint let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when Natasha stopped touching him.

“Clint?” she asked. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What’s the situation?”

Clint realized he hand’t been keeping a look out; he’d been so preoccupied with their strange moment of intimacy. He looked around quickly. “We’re good. Are you done?” He realized he was being short with her and tried to temper it with a smile, but she wasn’t fooled.

“I think so,” Natasha said. “Help me with him.”

Clint shouldered his bow. He was grateful when Natasha let him scoop the unconscious Bruce into his arms and hold him close. Bruce’s breathing was shallow and he still had the lingering smell of gamma radiation, but Clint felt instantly better. With a pang of hurt he realized that he hadn’t been there for Bruce when he needed him, but now maybe…

“I’ll take him back to the ‘jet,” Clint said.

Natasha nodded. “I’ll clear the area and follow in five.”

That wasn’t much time, but it was enough for Clint to rush back to the jet. He carefully placed Bruce on the bench and grabbed an emergency blanket to wrap him in. He tucked Bruce in and checked that Bruce was warm enough for the moment, then he hunted for a sweater. 

Bruce awoke barely a minute later, groggy and tired. There was a cranky line between his eyebrows as he frowned up at Clint.

“Who’d ‘e hurt?” he slurred.

“Nobody,” Clint soothed. He rested his hand against Bruce’s forehead and then smoothed his hair back. Bruce nuzzled into the motion like a needy dog. “You were so strong, Bruce. You did great. Nat–she helped Hulk calm down. Is it all right if I take care of you?”

Bruce answered by reaching out from under the blanket and grabbing Clint’s arm. He pulled him down until Clint was barely sitting on the bench. Bruce wrapped his arms around Clint’s lap and buried his face in Clint’s hip. “S’re,” he mumbled, but he didn’t let Clint get up.

Clint just smiled, feeling warm and happy at the attention Bruce was allowing him to give. He buried his fingers in Bruce’s hair and said, “I can’t really sing.”

“That’s ‘kay,” Bruce said. He sighed in contentment. “Just hold me.”

So Clint did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Translation from [here](http://russianforkids.blogspot.com/2009/05/itsy-bitsy-spider.html).]


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116709901675/i-came-to-the-halloween-party-as-frankenstein-and): “I came to the Halloween party as Frankenstein and you came as Frankenstein’s Bride, now everyone thinks we’re dates” au
> 
> [Okay Anon I changed it a little because the image of Clint as Igor popped into my head and I couldn’t shake it. This was going to be a sad commentary on who the real monster is, but instead you get cheesy pick up lines.]

“So what are you supposed to be?”

Clint glanced up at the other man. Although he was shorter than Clint, Clint was hunched over (and his back was killing him from the weight of the false hump). The man wore a sharp white lab coat that buttoned off-center, a stethoscope, and rubber gloves. His long curly hair was all feathered out around his head. His brown eyes were sparkling. Clint’s jaw dropped, partly out of recognition, partly from how cute the man was.

“Holy–you’re Dr. Frankenstein!”

The man smiled winningly. “Whoa, yes. How’d you get that? People keep saying doctor, but not, well. Not Frankenstein.” He coughed awkwardly.

“Because I’m Igor. I have to know my own boss.” Clint grinned at him.

Frankenstein snapped his fingers. Or, tried to. It didn’t work with the rubber gloves. “That’s why Tony’s been giggling all night. He said I should talk to you. I thought maybe he knew you.”

Clint nodded. He gestured with his beer at the tightly packed living room. “He invited me, but I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s off playing host.” Frankenstein leaned back against the wall. He was nursing a glass of sprite. “And spreading rumors, of course.”

“Of course,” Clint agreed. But then he asked, “What rumors?”

“Um.” Frankenstein blushed fiercely. It made the dark, painted smudges under his eyes stand out more. “Just that, well. I guess it makes more sense now that I realize you’re an Igor and I’m a Dr. Frankenstein. Did you, did you come with someone?”

“No,” Clint said slowly.

Frankenstein glanced around the room nervously. “Well. Tony seemed to think that only a, a couple would do something like…” He gestured back and forth between them very quickly, indicating their costumes. “Which is of course ridiculous.” 

“Aw,” Clint said. He pouted. “Just because I’ve got a hunch back thing going? I don’t always have that you know.”

Frankenstein looked at him, confused. “What? There’s nothing wrong with–I mean, I didn’t assume you did.” He paused, flustered, and began rolling his glass in his hands.

Clint grinned. “And anyway, the hump is a real turn on for some guys.”

“Really?” Frankenstein asked faintly. His eyes went out of focus like he was picturing it. 

“Some people say it’s not the size of the hump, it’s how you use it, but I think it’s both.” Clint’s grin grew larger as Frankenstein blushed. “What do you think?”

Frankenstein gaped for a moment before closing his mouth with a decisive click. Clint could see the resolve wash over him as he talked himself into it, then Frankenstein said, “I usually just have to worry about people screaming it’s alive! It’s alive!” He grinned sheepishly at his own bad joke.

But Clint laughed. “It’s a shame we couldn’t do a couple’s costume this year,” he said. “Maybe we should plan better next year.”

“Oh.” Frankenstein went back to nervously rolling his glass. “You think?” He sounded hopeful. “I don’t even know your name. I can’t call you Igor for the rest of your life.”

Clint resisted the urge to say it was okay if it was him. “I’m Clint.”

He nodded. “Clint. I’m Bruce.” He stuck out one rubber-gloved hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Dr. Frankenstein,” Clint said, grinning as he shook Bruce’s hand. “I think this is the start of a great partnership.” He raised his glass. “To next year.”

“Next year.” Bruce mirrored him and delicately sipped his sprite. “Till death do us part and then some.” 

Clint nodded. “And then some,” he agreed. 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/116794098845/went-to-the-park-to-bs-my-photography-assignment): “Went to the park to BS my photography assignment and saw you reading on a bench so I’ve been sneaking photos of you because your hair is catching the light in such a perfect way and - uh oh you’ve seen me” AU dude this is so hulkeye i can't tell if Clint is the photographer or Bruce cause Clint would be that guy "dorky guy with fluffy hair hell yes" and Bruce just trying to be casual and failing as he takes pics of Clint until Clint grins at him knowing Bruce has been taking pics the whole time

The assignment was to explore light.

Clint scoffed at the assignment, rolled his eyes, and then spent forty minutes trying to convince Professor Rogers it was dumb. Prof Rogers was unimpressed, and gave him the additional assignment of capturing, “The feeling you get on a warm summer day.”

Clint had decided to cut his losses and go to the park. The park had light (the sun) and it was pretty warm out so, bam, the assignment was practically complete already.

He took a picture of a leaf. There was light on the leaf, he figured. He took a picture of the sidewalk, a tree, and then five dozen pictures of a dog. He was basically great at photography. He flipped through the pictures in his camera, frowning. None of them were really that exciting, and certainly none of them made him feel like it was a “warm summer day.” Not even enough to bullshit a five-paragraph essay over.

Camera in hand, Clint explored the park for nearly an hour until finally he saw it–light.

There was a man reading a book on the park bench. He looked engrossed, brown eyes intent behind his glasses. His curly hair feathered out around his head and caught the light so beautifully that Clint couldn’t resist taking a picture. 

He checked it. Yes, this was it. This was the subject he’d needed. He just had to take a few more pictures to get the perfect one.

He tried to play it cool. He walked by the man a few times, taking pictures at odd intervals. He pretended to yawn once, snapping a few shots off as he moved (those ones were all blurry, unfortunately). He snuck around behind the man and marveled at the way the sun scattered through his curls. A few more pictures wouldn’t hurt, so he filled his camera with them. Shots of the man thumbing through his book, the corner of his mouth curling up as he read something funny, the folds in his sleeve from where it was rolled up to his elbow. The deep, coffee brown of his eyes as he looked over at Clint.

Oh, crap. He was looking at Clint.

The man frowned and carefully folded his book shut and set it aside. “Can I help you?”

“Uh.” Clint stood there, frozen. “It’s for an art project!” he blurted out.

The man blinked.

Clint jumped into action. “I had this assignment from my teacher. I have to explore light, whatever that means, and I noticed your hair. No! It’s good! In a good way! It’s really cool how the sun reflects off of it and so I was just going to take one picture but then I was thinking about the second part of my assignment and–” He snapped his mouth shut, mentally scolding himself for saying too much.

“Second part?” the man asked faintly. He looked dazed.

“I’m supposed to take a picture of something that makes me feel happy. Like the way you feel on a warm summer’s day.” He was blushing; he could tell. “And you’re kinda cute so I guess I went overboard. I’ll just get out of your hair.” He started to turn and walk away.

“It’s alright,” the man said softly.

Clint froze. “What, really?”

He shrugged. “You should probably ask first next time, though.”

“Right, uh. Right. Is it okay if I take your picture?”

The man smiled brilliantly and there it was–that was the epitome of that warm summer’s day Clint was looking for. Already poetry was assembling itself in his head, ready made to hand to Rogers on Monday. “Can I know your name first?”

“Clint.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bruce.” He stuck out his hand to shake and Clint accepted it, feeling like a dummy the whole while. “Clint, you can take my picture any time.”

“Really?” Clint realized he sounded way too excited and he tried to reign himself in. “I mean, uh. Really?” There, perfectly calm.

“Yes, although.” Bruce waved a hand at the sun, which was setting rapidly. “The light’s not great anymore. Maybe we could meet up again tomorrow?”

“Yes! I mean, yeah. Cool.” 

Bruce stood and tucked his book under one arm. He was still smiling pleasantly. “Can’t wait,” he said. His voice was low and appraising. “Same time, same place?”

Clint could only nod. He clutched his camera tightly as Bruce waved and began walking away. There were butterflies in his stomach and he was suddenly acutely glad for such a dumb art assignment.

* * *

 

Bruce made it just out of sight before he doubled over in nervous giggles and had to pull out his cellphone. “Tony,” he said, elated. “You will not  _believe_  how suave I just acted.”


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roshytsunami [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/117302487640/imagine-your-otp-have-a-kid-person-a-goes-grocery): Imagine your OTP have a kid. Person A goes grocery shopping leaving B to watch their kid. When A comes home, they see B having a tea party with their child.

“Okay, so he doesn’t like tomatoes or carrots, so don’t try to feed them to him. If he gets hungry there’s prepared meals in the fridge next to the Pediasure stuff. Make sure he drinks some of those. Vitamins are important for kids, right?”

Bruce nodded slowly. “Uh, yes?”

Clint relaxed a little. “Great. Okay, here’s his books.” He handed Bruce four books, each emblazoned with a little  _ages 5+_  on the cover. “Got three puzzles, too, just in case he gets bored with books. Extra clothes, shoes for walking–but don’t go too far because he gets tired easily. These boots are for if it rains, and these ones are for if it snows.” He handed Bruce each item in turn. “No TV unless it’s educational or [Yo Gabba Gabba](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riJRODogRVI) ‘cause that show is the shit. I don’t think it’s on right now, though. What else? Oh, his extra blanket. If he wants to take a nap you need to sing 9 to 5–that Dolly Parton song? It’s the only one he’ll fall asleep to.”

Bruce looked a little nervous. “Um?”

Clint frowned. “Do you know the lyrics? You know what, never mind, his nap time was earlier so you should be fine.

Wavering under the stacks of items Clint had given him, Bruce glanced around the apartment nervously. “How long are you planning to be gone?”

“It’s just a grocery run, Bruce,” Clint told him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Barney Jr. chose that moment to run screaming into the living room, wildly throwing around little plastic dinosaurs. Dinosaurs rained at Bruce’s feet, and then Barney Jr. went screaming back to his room.

Clint grinned. “Take good care of my bro’s clone, okay?”

Bruce answered by looking nervous again.

* * *

 

Clint stared at the rows of food at the grocery store. He wanted to set a good example for his child/brother’s clone, so he sadly forwent getting the bag of chips that he wanted. He got some kale instead and sighed. Being a parent sucked sometimes, but the responsibility was good for him. It certainly made him eat healthier.

He paid for his food using a wad of cash and whistled as he walked back to his apartment. Thankfully he had a friend like Bruce who could watch Barney Jr. when he had to run errands. Clint sometimes just needed to be away from the house for a while, and if he was honest he missed hanging out with his superhero friends. Part of that whole being-responsible thing had meant giving up Avenger-ing for the sake of his kid and, along with that, giving up his shameless flirting with Bruce. He’d really felt like they were going somewhere, but then his brother had stumbled back into his life in the form of a rambunctious three-year-old and Clint had put an end to it.

But, now that Barney Jr. had begun settling in, Clint was hopeful that he and Bruce could pick up where they left off. In the bottom of his grocery bag was a nice bottle of wine and the fixings for mushroom risotto. He was hoping to put Barney Jr. to bed a little early tonight and spend the evening wining and dining Bruce, perhaps sharing pleasant chuckles with him before reaching over and taking Bruce’s hand, leaning in, whispering…

The fantasy got a little hazy there, but Clint figured he’d know what to do when the time came.

He was still whistling when he pushed open the door to his apartment and realized the kitchen was destroyed.

Clint dropped his groceries and dove for the couch, grabbing the bow and quiver he stored on the wall above it. He shouldered his quiver quickly, already back in Avenger-mode despite two years without practice. He surveyed the scene as he knocked an arrow.

The cupboard doors were all thrown open. Most of his dishes were scattered on the floor. Clint could see that the stove was on, and the stool Barney Jr. used to get high enough to see the top was pulled over, but it looked like whatever had been cooking had exploded. There was soot on the wall. The pot was a red-hot mess. The sink was running.

Bruce and Barney Jr. were nowhere in sight. But, on the floor of the kitchen, the tell-tale signs of Bruce growing into a giant green rage monster lay scattered in the form of a ripped shirt.

Quit as a (deadly) mouse, Clint snuck through his apartment. He had a tranquilizer arrow just in case, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Surely Hulk wouldn’t–Hulk was his  _friend_ , just as much as Bruce. Hulk would never hurt anyone. Sometimes he made mistakes, sure, but…

Clint gulped. Carefully, he pushed open the door to Barney Jr.’s room and nearly cried out in relief.

“Charles Bernard Barton Jr., just what do you think you’re doing?” Clint asked, aiming for stern but hitting more on panicked happiness.

Barney Jr. looked up from where he was pouring Hulk a cup of tea, looking for all the world like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Just playing!” 

Hulk grumbled from his position, squeezed into a child-size chair and delicately holding an adult-sized mug between his thumb and forefinger. He looked miserable. 

“Why is Bruce all…” Clint gestured at Hulk. “Hulky?”

“Oh, it was so cool.” Barney Jr. seemed to have forgotten he was ever in trouble. He bounded over to Clint and grabbed his hand, pulling him into the room and forcing him into a seat of his own. Clint went willingly, tucking his bow under the chair as he sat. “I tricked him ‘cause I’m a genius and I wanted to make tea, ‘cause you always say Bruce likes tea. It was gonna be a surprise, you know. Somethin’ nice for taking care of me.”

Clint nodded. Hulk grumbled again. 

“So I started a pot on fire like you’re s’posed to,” Barney Jr. went on. “And it was so loud! It was definitely gonna explode, you should’a seen it. But anyways it did explode and Bruce was like, ‘oh no!’ And I was like, ‘cool!’ But then he jumped and pushed me outta the way but I guess he got burned because Hulk came out to say hey.”

Slowly, Clint turned to look at Hulk. Hulk was still glaring at his ‘tea’ which Clint now suspected was merely water. “Really?”

Hulk grunted. “Cupid family all dumb. Take too many risks.”

Clint laughed at that. He leaned back in his chair and picked up a mug–yep, just water. He toasted Hulk. “Can’t argue with you there, big guy.”

Barney Jr. went back to serving them ‘tea,’ talking all the while about how cool Bruce had been and how bad Hulk was at opening cupboards even though he was “like eight million feet tall, for sure.” Clint just sat back and basked in the feeling of knowing his family was safe and watched Hulk until finally Hulk got bored and slowly melted back to Bruce.

After that, he put the unconscious Bruce to sleep in his bed and made Barney Jr. eat all his (thankfully pre-made) supper before putting him to bed as well. Clint thought about cleaning up the kitchen, but decided against it. He’d do it tomorrow after asking Bruce to stay a little longer.

They still had to make risotto, after all.

He crawled into bed beside Bruce, keeping a respectful distance. Bruce rolled over as he did it, blinking at him sleepily.

“Cli’n?” Bruce slurred. He half-buried his face in the pillow.

“Don’t worry,” Clint whispered back. “Just go to sleep.”

Bruce nodded, then paused. “Did Hulk really have a tea party?”

Clint chuckled. Bruce just looked so tired and confused, his long curly hair falling into his face as he blinked his eyes. Clint couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing his hair back from his forehead, smiling softly as he did so. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think Barney likes him.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, just as softly as Clint. He nuzzled a little at Clint’s hand. “Good. I want him to like me, ‘cause…” He trailed off, looking shy.

“Of course he likes you,” Clint assured him. “He takes after me.”

Bruce smiled and his eyes fluttered shut. He was clearly exhausted. Clint gave his hair one last ruffle before sadly pulling his hand away to tuck under his pillow. He let Bruce’s even breathing lull him into an easy sleep.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whereevenismyliferightnow [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/117356122650/all-of-your-prompt-fills-give-me-life-how-about):  
> All of your prompt fills give me life. How about 'I never met you before but my friend brought you to my dinner party but you didn't tell me you were allergic to something and now I'm with you at the hospital and you're heavily drugged but sweet' AU.

Bruce had never had a dinner party before. He was just trying to be a good host. 

He invited all his friends which was, admittedly, not very many people. Tony came because Pepper reminded him. Steve showed up with Sam and Bucky in tow (and Bruce still wasn’t sure what was going on there, if they were all three together or just liked hanging out). Maria showed up late with Natasha and Phil, and behind them someone named Clint whom Bruce had never met but was happy to get to know. (Certainly not because Clint was smoking hot, that would be ridiculous. It was just because Bruce was trying to be a good host. Yes. That was it.)

He bustled around the kitchen like a nervous hen, tending occasionally to soup that was trying to boil over. He laid out kale salad with just a squeeze of lime as an appetizer, proud of how everything was coming together. His friends all lined up at the bar, exchanging quiet conversation and occasional laughter.

“Need any help?” Clint asked him, leaning against the counter by one hip in a way that was positively sinful.

“Um,” Bruce said. He managed to say, “No, that’s quite all right. You can enjoy yourself.” 

Clint tipped his head to one side and smirked at him. “What’re you making?”

“ _Maafe_ ,” Bruce said. “It’s something I picked up when I traveled to Africa.”

Clint looked confused at the word, but he nodded. 

“I think you’ll like it,” Bruce said quietly. He could feel himself blushing.

“I’ll get out of your hair, then.” Clint actually glanced up at his hair, then his eyes trailed back down. He was still smirking.

Bruce whirled through the rest of the preparations and poured a hearty bowl of soup for each of his friends. Then he sat back, basking in the glow of a dinner party going right.

Things were going great until Clint said, “Aw, peanuts,” and swelled up like a balloon.

* * *

 

“I am  _so_  sorry,” Bruce said for the millionth time.

Clint slurred something incomprehensible that was probably, “It’s fine,” also for the millionth time.

Bruce stood in the center of the hospital room, nervously plucking at his fingers. He felt personally responsible for putting Clint here. He should have known better than to feed peanuts to new people without first asking about allergens. He should have realized Clint had been trying to surreptitiously investigate what was going on with the soup instead of just shooing him out of the kitchen. Instead, he’d fed Clint peanuts and had to frantically drive to the hospital.

“Did you know,” Clint said, sounding a little loopy. His eyes were dark and glassy, and Bruce was pretty sure that wasn’t a common side-effect of anti-allergy medication. “That I was in the circus?”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Clint let his head fall back on the overstuffed pillows with a  _woomf_ of air. “Got to wear a lot of tights, a lot of… Tights,” he said again. He was grinning dopily now. “Tights are very freeing, but not as freeing as hospital gowns.” He gestured down at the paper-thin gown he was wearing.

Before he could think about it, Bruce followed the gesture. He immediately blushed. Yes, very freeing indeed. “Sorry,” he blurted again.

“S’cool,” Clint said. “Maybe you can make it up to me?”

Bruce glommed on to the offer. “Yes, of course. Anything you need.”

“Hmm.” Clint made a little show of considering. “Seems like you owe me dinner,” he said.

“Oh.” Bruce could feel himself blushing. “Like, dinner dinner?”

“Yeah, dinner dinner.”

“Oh, um, yes. Okay.” Bruce started nodding and forced himself to stop, feeling stupid. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Natasha chose that moment to walk in, carrying a little bundle of flowers in her hand. “Well, this is new,” she said sarcastically. “Usually when I visit you here it’s because of a dumb decision you made. This time it was actually outside your control.”

“Aw, Nat,” Clint whined.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then slotted her gaze to Bruce, who was trying to disappear into the wallpaper. “Has he been pretending to be all drugged out?”

Bruce nodded.

Natasha sighed. “Clint, no one is stupid enough to believe that. It isn’t morphine.”

With a pout, Clint sat up a little straighter. “Can’t I pretend?”

“No.” She threw the flowers at him. “I’m going to find a doctor to get you out of here. Tony’s driving everyone nuts in the lobby.” 

She turned on her heel and stalked out before Clint could argue. Bruce watched her go, wondering what had just happened.

He looked at Clint. “Pretending?”

Clint blushed sheepishly. He toyed with the flowers for a second before awkwardly trying to hand them to Bruce. “Uh, got you something?”

Bruce took the flowers–regifted, but it was the thought that counted. “I prefer chocolates,” he said mildly. When Clint looked chagrined, he smiled. “For our date.”

Clint perked up, smiling back. “I’ll remember that,” he promised.

“Just…” Bruce coughed into his fist. “None with peanuts, okay? I want to be allergen-free in case, well.” He couldn’t finish it; he felt too awkward. He hoped Clint could read between the lines to see that Bruce kind of wanted to kiss him.

Clint laughed. “I think I can manage that.”


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/117361319630/hulkeye-youre-using-me-as-a-fake-significant):  
> Hulkeye "You’re using me as a fake significant other to get rid of the creep who won’t stop hitting on you at the bar" AU

Clint’s plan for the night was something like this: Put on his best pair of jeans. Wear his black t-shirt that showed off his arms. Go to the bar and get exactly three drinks. Flirt shamelessly with whoever stumbled near him. Screw it up at the last second and go home alone, because he was a dummy with perpetual foot-in-mouth syndrome. 

Clint’s actual night went more like this:

He had just ordered his first drink and was leaning back against the bar, scanning the room briefly just to get a sense of the mood. His eyes fell on a tense scene in the corner. There was an older guy there–big and burly with a mustache straight out of a 70s porno flick–getting way too close to a smaller man–who was adorable and freckled and had soft-looking curly hair. Clint wouldn’t have noticed, except that the freckled guy was leaning as far away from the mustache as he could, looking around nervously. 

Freckles looked right at Clint, and his eyes were pleading.

That settled it. Clint pushed off the bar and strolled over to the scene. He kept his beer bottle loosely gripped in his hand as he sidled up to the table.

“Hey, babe,” Clint said as he leaned against the freckled man. “Who’s your friend?” He decided to play it cool. No use picking a fight this early in the evening.

Mustache got a weird look on his face, like he’d stepped in something. “Who are  _you_?”

Clint blinked, surprised. “Uh, Clint Barton.” He stuck out his hand but Mustache didn’t try and shake it. Awkwardly, he lowered his hand again and glanced at Freckles, who was looking at him hopefully.  _Get me out of here_ , his eyes seemed to say. “Is he bothering you?”

Freckles bit at his lower lip. “Yes, actually,” he said softly. He carefully reached out and laced his arm with Clint’s. Clint was happy to oblige. 

“Well, then,” he said, pulling Freckles close and glaring at Mustache. “Maybe you should get lost.”

Mustache got a haughty look and tipped his chin up. “I don’t want to be around a bunch of queers anyway,” he said, and then he whirled around and stalked back to the bar.

“That seems hypocritical,” Clint whispered as Freckles buried his face in his hands and let out a laugh.

“Oh, God,” he whispered back. “I can’t believe that worked.  _Thank_  you.”

“It’s cool.” Clint wondered if he should pull away but, no. Mustache was still at the bar, glaring at them. He’d notice if Clint and Freckles stopped being all buddy-buddy. 

“He’s been bothering me for an hour. He can’t take a hint.” Freckles let out a long sigh and leaned against Clint for a second. “Sorry to rope you into this.”

“I had no plans for the night,” Clint said, which wasn’t exactly true. But this was turning out to be more exciting, anyway. “What was your name?”

“I’m Bruce,” he whispered. He looked nervously at the bar, then back to Clint. “I guess we have to keep up appearances, huh?”

“It’s no hardship.” Clint toyed with his beer bottle as he grinned at Bruce. He curled around Bruce a little, affecting an air of intimacy. “Unless it bothers you?”

“It bothers me that he’s still here,” Bruce said. He didn’t indicate Mustache in anyway, but Clint got his point. He blushed suddenly. “But, um, this is okay.”

“Cool.” Clint grinned. “Alright, Bruce. Why don’t you tell me about yourself? What do you do?”

Bruce opened his mouth and launched into a mini-rant about physics things that went way over Clint’s head. Bruce was sort of adorably excited about it all, though, and so Clint was happy to just lean against the table and watch him talk. He twirled his beer bottle and nodded his head at all the right points, and when Bruce asked him what he did for a living he felt relaxed enough to admit the truth.

“I’m in the circus.”

“Whoa, really?” Bruce leaned in, suddenly interested. “That must be difficult. All that traveling.”

Clint blinked in surprise. Usually when people found out he was in the circus they got starry-eyed and nostalgic for childhood. This was the first time someone had seemed honestly interested. “Yeah,” Clint agreed. “It’s not easy. But we stay in the state so I get to visit the same towns regularly.”

“What’s it like?” Bruce asked, and somehow Clint knew that Bruce wasn’t looking for the polished-and-pressed version of events. He’d accept the gritty reality. 

So, Clint told him a little about circus life, and Bruce told him a little bit more about life as a physics professor, and at some point Clint glanced up and realized the bartender was standing there looking annoyed.

“We’re closing up,” the bartender said. “Time to clear out.”

They closed their tabs and stepped out into the cool night air. Bruce was nervously tugging at his fingers and glancing at Clint occasionally. Clint found it impossibly endearing. He wanted to ask Bruce out again, but felt awkward about it. He worried he’d be the creep, then, like Mustache had been.

“Thank you for saving me,” Bruce said before Clint could muddle through his own thoughts to come up with something. “Um, if you’re not too busy, do you think we could do this again sometime?”

Clint grinned–probably too widely, but it made him happy. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe you can come see my show tomorrow?”

Bruce smiled softly back. “I’d really like that,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

They shuffled nervously for a second before Clint thought, to hell with it. It hadn’t been a normal first date by any stretch of the imagination, but it was close enough. He leaned in slowly, giving Bruce plenty of time to indicate he should stop, but Bruce didn’t.

Clint kissed him on the cheek and pulled back, blushing. “See you tomorrow,” he said quickly. He turned on his heel and waved over his shoulder, leaving Bruce to stand in the street, gently touching his cheek and smiling to himself.

Yeah, Clint went home alone, but that was okay. It had still been a wonderful night.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruvebanner [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/117405025430/khkdhd-i-hope-you-dont-mind-i-just-wanted-to):  
> khkdhd i hope you don't mind i just wanted to prompt this one au that's bugged me forever: slytherin!bruce with werewolf tendencies and hufflepuff!clint? any situation, i just need that xD

That first day was a blur for Clint. He didn’t remember much. There was the train ride, then the boat up to the castle. He vaguely recalled the long boring speech from the Headmaster, then the sorting hat settling on his head and belting out, “Hufflepuff!” before he had time to really think about it. He’d been ushered away to polite applause.

He didn’t meet Bruce until much later when he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned for hours as the other first-years snored around him, then he threw off his covers and decided to stalk around the castle in the dark. He was pretty good at hiding; he figured no one would see him.

He made his way down the halls, nodding politely to the pictures. It was pure happenstance that he opened the heavy wooden door, tucked away at the base of a staircase. He peered in and frowned at the sight of another young boy huddled near the window, impassive face damp with tears.

“Hey,” Clint hissed. “What’s your deal?”

The other boy jumped and whirled round. He scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his robe. “Nothing!” he said. Then his entire face crumpled in despair. “Except I got sorted into  _Slytherin_.”

“So?” Clint slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. “Slytherin is cool. You get to be cunning or whatever.”

The boy frowned at him. He sniffled pitifully. “My father was a Slytherin,” he said.

“See?” Clint said. He crawled up onto the windowsill beside him and curled his knees up to his chest. “Then it’s extra cool. Like a family legacy. My brother’s in Hufflepuff, just like me.”

The boy shook his head. “No, it’s not cool,” he insisted. “My dad is–was–he…” He took a deep breath. “I’m Robert Bruce Banner.”

Things clicked into place for Clint. Even though he was young and barely tuned in to news, he had still heard the story of the crazy Banner who had experimented on his son and killed his wife. The wizarding world had mourned the loss of two powerful magic users. Clint reached out and patted him on the arm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If you want, you don’t have to stay there tonight. You can come stay with me in the Hufflepuff dorms.”

He looked so hopeful and happy that Clint knew he’d made the right choice.

* * *

 

At some point near the end of their first year, Robert Bruce Banner became just Bruce. It was kind of cool, since Clint was really the only one who called him that. It was like a secret they shared. They got to hang out all the time, which was awesome.

It wasn’t until year two that he started piecing together their professors’ nervous looks. It was the sixth time their Charms professor had pulled Clint aside and insisted that he make different friends–heavily implying that Bruce was bad news–and Clint was sick of it. He didn’t say anything to Bruce, although he did give his professor an earful. 

Year three was met with the stark realization that Bruce disappeared one night a month. Clint tried not to think about what that meant. He focused instead on the growing realization that Bruce was cute, and that he kind of wanted to kiss him and hold his hand. The feelings confused him, and were much more important than the thought that Bruce may or may not be a werewolf. 

It wasn’t until year six when it all blew up in their faces. 

It started with a howler.

“YOU MONSTER,” it screamed as Bruce sat, stunned, staring at the parchment. “YOU THINK YOU CAN PUT OUR CHILDREN AT RISK? I’LL HAVE YOU OUT OF THAT SCHOOL BY TOMORROW.”

The entire population of the great hall was staring at them as Clint lit the howler on fire and pulled Bruce into a hug. “Just ignore them,” he said, and Bruce nodded mutely.

But then there were more. There was a printing in the paper that read  _Banner Exposed!_ and had what was clearly an altered photo of Bruce with extra fur all over his face. That was followed by a dozen more howlers, all demanding Bruce leave Hogwarts immediately. Clint told him again and again to ignore them, but it was for nothing. Bruce just quietly packed his things.

“The Ministry will be after me next,” Bruce said, speaking to his trunk full of clothes and not to Clint. “It’s better if I just leave.”

Clint sat there, panicking and trying to think of some way to make him stay. “Bruce, you’ve been dealing with this for  _six years._ Nothing bad has happened! Why do you think something bad is going to happen all of a sudden?”

“I’m not…like other werewolves,” Bruce said slowly. “I change every month, but I can also be provoked. Bad things have happened, Clint. I just haven’t let you know about them.” He said it so matter-of-factly.

“I don’t believe you,” Clint insisted. “Just, just give me one more month. A week. The full moon is next week. If you make it through with no incident you’ll stay.” He phrased it like a command, desperate.

Bruce finally looked back at him, sad eyes wet behind his glasses. Clint could see him warring internally with himself. His gaze traveled over Clint, heavy and full of meaning, and Clint just wanted to pull him into a hug and kiss away his troubles, but he didn’t. 

“Okay,” Bruce said finally, and Clint relaxed. “One more week.”

An owl chose that moment to deliver another howler, and they both plugged their ears as it screamed  _MONSTER_.

* * *

 

On the night of the full moon, Clint grasped his hand as Bruce took to the stairs of his tower.

“Things will be fine,” Clint assured him. Bruce didn’t look so sure. “I’ll see you when you get done?”

Bruce just smiled sadly.

Clint watched him walk up the stairs, wanting to say  _wait_  and  _this isn’t goodbye_. Instead, he waited until Bruce had closed the door at the top. He counted the seconds as they passed until he was sure the moon was high in the sky, then he climbed the stairs as well. He leaned into the door and whispered  _Alohomora_.

The lock opened easily for him.

Bruce had already changed, as he’d suspected, and was a panting, ravenous wolf in the corner. His fur was an unnatural, moldy green, and his eyes seemed to glow green under the moonlight as well. Bruce turned on him with a growl and Clint didn’t even hesitate to step into the room and lock the door behind him.

“Hey, Bruce,” Clint said softly. The wolf growled again, low and threatening and began pacing back and forth along the wall. “I’m going to sit with you, okay?”

Obviously, Bruce couldn’t answer. But the wolf just seemed confused for a second, not violent. Clint sat on the floor and crossed his legs.

“You can join me if you want,” he said.

The wolf kept growling at him, occasionally taking menacing steps forward only to draw back when Clint wasn’t scared. For half the night it went like this until finally the fight seemed to go out of the wolf. His body relaxed and his tail wagged once before he tip-toed over to Clint like he was afraid Clint would yell at him.

“Hey,” Clint said softly. He raised his hand, palm up, and let the wolf sniff at him. “It’s okay.”

The wolf whimpered once and then pushed against his hand, nuzzling him. Clint gave him a pet and encouraged him to come closer. Bruce was bigger than Clint had thought he would be–as a wolf he probably weighed as much as a human. He still didn’t complain as the wolf curled up with his head in Clint’s lap, occasionally looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes that were now soft and brown.

“Aw, Bruce,” Clint said as he scritched behind the wolf’s ear. “Who could be afraid of a sweet thing like you?”

The wolf answered with a deep, bone-tired sigh.

They sat, breathing together, until the sun peaked over the horizon and Clint was treated to the quite interesting sight of the wolf shrinking back into Bruce and leaving a naked boy in his lap.

“Um,” Clint said.

Bruce sat up in a hurry. “Um.”

They stared at one another. Then Clint broke into a lecherous grin. 

“Oh, geeze,” Bruce said, splaying his hand across his face. “I, I didn’t hurt you?”

“You were a perfect gentleman,” Clint teased.

Bruce let out a laugh. It sounded manic and relieved. “I can’t believe you’re not a Slytherin,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing, but then he added, “You’re the one who’s always conniving to get what he wants.”

“Not always.” Clint reached out and circled his hand around Bruce’s wrist, pulling him closer. “Just with the really important stuff. Like you.”

Bruce gazed up at him, breathing a little funny. “Me?”

Clint nodded. “You. Bruce, I’ve known you were a wolf since year two, basically. You’ve never hurt me and, based on tonight, you never will. Can’t you trust yourself as much as I trust you?”

Bruce glanced away, and so Clint reached out to grasp his chin and gently turn his head back so they could gaze at each other again. Bruce looked so unsure, so Clint smiled reassuringly.

Bruce let out a breath. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

“That’s okay,” Clint told him. He realized he was whispering. Instead of speaking louder, he leaned closer to Bruce, so close their noses practically touched. “But if you stay here, we can work on it together.”

“Yeah?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed and then, since it seemed Bruce was thinking what he was thinking, he closed the gap between them and pressed a soft kiss to Bruce’s lips. He pulled back after a moment, breathed, “Yeah,” again, and then leaned in for another kiss.

After a while, Bruce pulled away sharply. “Um,” he said, flushing red. “I should really, uh. Robe.”

Clint blinked, then startled into action. “Right!” He jumped up and turned around, giving Bruce a chance to get dressed in peace. He realized he was grinning giddily and didn’t even try to stop it.

“One thing, though,” Bruce said. Clint turned around and saw that, sadly, Bruce was dressed again. “I can’t keep getting howlers in the great hall. It’s…” He made a face. “Annoying.”

Clint stepped towards him and kissed him again, because he was enjoying that just as much as he’d always thought he would. “We’ll figure something out,” he promised. “Whatever happens, I’ll be there with you.” 

Bruce seemed to melt against him, burying his face in Clint’s neck. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Of course,” Clint whispered back, like it was obvious (because it was). “I’ve got you.”

They stood together for a long while, gathering their thoughts. Then Bruce pulled back with a half-grin and took Clint’s hand, and they walked back down the stairs to face the new day together.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/117447816945/your-dog-has-been-stealing-my-newspaper-for-weeks):  
> "Your dog has been stealing my newspaper for weeks and I came over here to give you a stern lecture about personal property but oh no you're really hot...!" Hulkeye AU.

The first time it wasn’t really a big deal.

Bruce stepped out of his house in his robe, carefully sipping at his hot tea, just in time to see a yellow dog snatch up his newspaper and dash off down the street. Bruce blinked after the dog, resigned himself to a news-less future, and went back to struggle into his work clothes.

The second day it also wasn’t a big deal. He scolded the dog as it ran off, then looked up the news online.

Around the sixth time he was starting to get annoyed. He shouted after the dog, but his slippers meant he couldn’t chase it. He glared into his cooling tea and resolved to wake up earlier the next day.

For three days in a row he managed to wake up early enough to get his paper before the dog. Bruce sat in his recliner and snapped it open, reading the stark black print with a sense of satisfaction.

On the tenth day, he really wanted the paper because he was in it. 

Front page, huge spread, him at the forefront of what was supposed to be a mild gathering for pure water rights, but had instead turned into a massive rally. He’d gotten to hold a sign and yell into a bullhorn. It had been awesome. He knew he was going to be on the front page the next day–in a sleepy town like this, there was no other news.

But when he stepped outside in his slippers and robe, the dog was already halfway down the street.

“Hey!” Even though he was in his slippers he jogged after the dog. “Stop! Dog!” 

Bruce clutched his robe around his waist as the dog led him on a merry chase around the neighborhood before finally running up and through the doggy door of a nearby house. Huffing and puffing, cursing his decision to wear slippers, Bruce followed. He pounded on the door and tried to catch his breath.

He knocked three times, and was just about to give up hoping someone was home when the door opened. His breath caught.

No shirt, that was what Bruce noticed first. No shirt and fantastic arms that could probably bench press him. The guy was blonde, with his hair all smashed on one side like he’d just woken up. He was blinking sleepily and rubbing at one eye as he leaned against the door jam.

“Can I help you?”

“Um.” Bruce wrapped his robe a little tighter around his waist. He’d been ready to give the dog’s owner a stern talking to about personal property, but now that he was confronted with 6′3″ of very attractive man, he couldn’t remember a word of his planned lecture. “Your dog,” he said weakly.

The yellow dog chose that moment to reappear, Bruce’s newspaper still clutched in its mouth. It stood beside the man and grinned up at him, mocking. Somehow that galvanized Bruce.

“Your dog’s been stealing my papers,” Bruce said, pointing an accusing finger at the animal.

“Really?” The guy scrubbed at his face again and frowned at the dog. He held out his hand and said, “Drop,” and the dog carefully put the slobbery newspaper in his palm. “Aw, Lucky,” he said.

Bruce sighed as the man handed him the ruined paper. He tried to unfurl it but it sort of disintegrated. He could vaguely make out the picture on the front. It was of him, but it was illegible now. 

He looked up to see the man frowning at him. “Sorry about that,” he said. He scratched at his stomach. “I’ll keep Lucky inside in the mornings from now on.”

“Okay,” Bruce said sadly. 

The man’s mouth did a funny thing, like he was trying to suppress a smile at Bruce’s pitiful state. No doubt he thought it was cute–people always did. “I can go buy you a new paper,” he said. “How about a coffee, too, to make up for it?”

There was something–something about how still the man went as he asked the question–that made Bruce wonder about what he was really asking. “Sure,” he said before he could think about it too hard. He smiled and the man grinned back brightly. “I’d like that.”

“Let me get a shirt,” he said, sounding excited. 

Bruce wanted to say ‘no need’ but he didn’t. “I need clothes as well.” He plucked at the neck of his robe. “Meet at the coffee shop?”

They exchanged information, and Bruce finally learned his name–Clint. Clint was still grinning as Bruce headed back down the sidewalk towards home. Bruce barely caught what he said as he closed the door behind him.

“Good boy, Lucky.”

Bruce just smiled and shook his head. A few days without news seemed worth it.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/117487030125/your-little-hulkeye-drabbles-fic-is-my-favorite):  
> Your "little hulkeye drabbles" fic is my favorite and I had a suggestion [...] (3) There are not enough lockers in the school so we have to share one for the rest of the year did I mention I have a h
> 
> [Thank you! I am very sad that your last suggestion got cut off maybe you can resend it but in the meantime it gave me a great idea! Somehow “did I mention I have a h” was very inspiring to me.
> 
> I’m just going to do #3 for now but you can always resend me prompts. :)]

At sixteen Clint had fallen into this sort of punkish phase, complete with leather jackets and slicked back hair. He’d somehow managed to wriggle his way onto the football team, too, which meant he got all the cool kids as his friends, too. He was the epitome of cool, and wasn’t afraid to say it. 

But he also had one big secret. A secret that lived at the bottom of his locker. A secret no one could know about. 

When the new freshmen rolled in, there was a problem. Too many students, not enough lockers. Everyone was getting paired up left and right, and Clint felt panic stab through his chest. If the new freshman got to his locker before him–

He broke into a dead run. He dashed down the hall, pushing aside people left and right until he got to the hall which housed his locker. It was thankfully deserted, saved for one curly-haired kid spinning the knob on a locker near the end of the hall. Clint almost relaxed, but then he realized. 

That was his locker.

“Wait!” he cried, but it was too late.

The kid looked up, brown eyes wide behind his glasses, just as the locker door swung open and Hawkeye memorabilia began spilling out. Everything–purple tights, knee-high boots, arm guards, fingerless gloves, even his Hawkeye mask emblazoned with a huge letter H–it all piled out on the floor at the kid’s feet.

“Aw, locker,” Clint said miserably.

The kid blinked at the huge pile of stuff. “How did this even  _fit_  in there?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Clint said quickly. He bounded over and started shoving things back into the locker. He laughed, somewhat panicked. “I’m just holding these for a friend.”

More memorabilia fell out. That  _stupid_  H-mask would not stay in. “Seriously,” Clint went on. “These aren’t mine. I’m just, just holding them. Geeze, don’t look. Don’t, haha, don’t jump to any conclusions here.”

He finally managed to shove the rest of his stuff back into the locker and he slammed the door. He spun around and smiled nervously at the kid, who was eyeing him skeptically. 

“I still need to put my books away,” the kid said. He held up a physics textbook.

“Right, right.” Way to be a dummy, Clint. He spun back around and opened the locker carefully. He tugged the book from his locker mate’s fingers and shoved it inside before anything more could fall out. He slammed the door with a muffled  _click_.

The kid was still looking at him funny. “You’re Clint Barton,” he said with slow, dawning realization.

Clint winced, but then it wasn’t like he could realistically hide his identity. Maybe if he’d worn the Hawkeye mask, he thought hysterically. “Yeah,” he croaked.

“I’m Bruce,” he said. “I get the impression you don’t want people to know about that uniform.”

Clint deflated. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone. If anybody found out I’d lose all my cred.” Bruce looked confused at the word ‘cred,’ but Clint went on. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold, and that reputation does not involve tights and masks.”

“What is it even for?”

“I’m… I was in the circus, okay? But you can’t tell  _anyone_.”

“But why keep it in your locker?”

Clint opened his mouth, shut it again, thought  _huh_ , and then said, “Don’t question my ways.” He tried to appear mysterious.

Bruce was unimpressed. “I won’t tell anyone,” he promised. “But I need something from you in return.”

Clint made a choking sound. “Okay,” he ground out.

“This whole…” He gestured at all of Clint. “Thing, that you do. Can you show me how?”

“…You want me to show you how to be cool?”

Bruce blushed and ducked his head, toying with the hem of his shirt. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Clint took his time thinking about it, looking over Bruce until Bruce started squirming with embarrassment. Really, Bruce didn’t seem  _that_  uncool. Maybe a little dorky, but then so was Clint. Carrying around physics textbooks probably wasn’t helping his image, but the awkward-cutie vibe he had going could counteract that.

“Sure,” Clint said finally, when he’d decided it wouldn’t be too much work. “I can do that.”

Bruce looked up at him, a tiny grin threatening at his lips. Clint got the impression that this was the equivalent of a belly-laugh for Bruce. “Thank you,” Bruce said honestly. 

“No prob.” Clint tried to play it cool, leaning back against his locker, but something went awry. The door popped open with a  _clang_  and purple uniform pieces fell like rain. Clint stared at them in disbelief. 

Bruce hid his titter behind his hand. “I’ll help you.”

Clint sighed, hanging his head in defeat. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t so bad, cleaning up the pieces to Clint’s past life together. They finally finished just as the bell rang, and Clint waved away his new locker mate, sending promises to meet again later for their first lesson in being cool. 


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/119110432490/high-school-teachers-one-shot-we-leave-each-other): High school teachers one shot: we leave each other messages on the black board (please and thank you)

Bruce was in a hurry, feeling more and more anxious as his thirty students stared at him. He glanced from them–all lined up along the wall of the hallway–to the door of his classroom. The teacher who had the room before him was taking a really, really long time. In just a few seconds the bell would ring and he’d be stuck out here, staring at judgmental fifteen-year-olds. 

He was so wound up that he jumped when the door finally swung open, thirty seconds to spare.

Bruce wasn’t sure what the class was, but based on how buff everyone was it was a class for the sports kids. He hovered nervously by the door as they spilled out like a bag of M&Ms, scattering their separate ways. He glanced at his watch–twenty-five seconds.

Then the teacher stepped out.

Twenty-three seconds.

Bruce didn’t recognized him, but it was a pretty big school. The teacher was about his height but far less slouchy. He had a shock of perfectly straight blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes that  _twinkled_ at Bruce as he swaggered by. 

Twenty seconds.

“All yours,” the teacher said. And then he reached out and clapped Bruce on the shoulder, his hand leaving a warm spot on Bruce’s arm as it trailed away.

“Um,” Bruce said. “Thanks.”

Fifteen seconds.

His students all piled into the classroom as Bruce watched the teacher go. His students were giggling to each other when he managed to tear his gaze away.

Ten seconds.

He stepped into the classroom.

Eight seconds.

And looked at the whiteboard.

Five seconds.

Bruce deflated. The board was  _covered_  in text. Lines going this way and that in shocking black marker. As the final seconds ticked away Bruce quickly scanned the board and realized this was the Physics remedial course. He frowned. Betrayed by a fellow physics instructor, he thought as the bell rang.

He erased the board and got started a few minutes late. When the class got done he picked up a red marker and scrawled on the upper corner of the board,  _Erase the board when your class is over_.

* * *

 

The next day the blonde teacher was done on time. His hair was spiked up with gel. Bruce tried not to stare.

“All yours,” the teacher said, and Bruce realized those were the only two words he’d ever heard him say, despite the fact he could still feel where they’d touched the day before.

“What’s the class?” Bruce asked, interested, as his students filed in.

The teacher smirked. “Remedial physics.” He shrugged and suddenly he was just as slouchy as Bruce, only in a way that was sort of cool instead of pathetically awkward. He looked more relaxed, anyway, whereas Bruce always felt he looked tense when he slouched. Or just tense in general.

“I’m not the normal teacher,” the blonde went on. He leaned against the wall with one shoulder. “But I guess Ms., uh…”

“Foster?”

“Yeah.” He snapped his fingers. “Ms. Foster took family leave this semester.”

Bruce tried not to be obvious in checking the man out. He certainly didn’t  _look_  like a physics teacher. He was too muscular, first of all. Even under his black button down Bruce could make out the perfect shape of his bicep. Perfect size for Bruce to wrap his hand around, if he reached out. Bruce realized he was staring and glanced up again, feeling his face grow hot.

“I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job.”

The teacher smirked. 

When Bruce stumbled into class the board was blissfully clean, save for the message scrawled in shocking red ink in the corner.

_Sorry Freckles. Board’s clean from now on_.

Bruce didn’t erase it, and at the end of class he scrawled an amendment.  _Thanks. Physicists have to stick together_.

* * *

 

It went like that. The other teacher ran late more often than not, and usually Bruce only had time to tip his chin up in greeting before scampering into the classroom to read the next note. 

_Not actually a physicist shh dont tell the class_

_You realize they can read this?_  Bruce’s students had giggled at that.

_are you sure?_ he’d received back _._

_What are you if not a physicist?_

_The Amazing Clint Barton_ , and he’d drawn a little picture of a stick figure firing a bow and arrow. 

_We got a memo about you_.

_All good?_

_About the new archer instructor_. Bruce had included a smiley face with that one.

_Aw, shucks_ , Clint wrote _. all grown up getting memos written about me._

_They should write one about your atrocious handwriting_.

_my handwriting is beautiful_ , Clint scrawled back. It took Bruce all period to decipher what he’d written.

_No, but it is unique_.

_the class wants to know if you can do a guest lecture_.

Bruce checked his schedule and wrote back,  _How about week four?_  And showed up that week with bells on.

Clint was at the desk in the front madly sorting through papers when Bruce walked in. They were alone, and Clint was engaged in what he was doing, so Bruce took a second to just watch him. Clint’s hair was gelled again today, but one piece must have been missed. It fell onto his forehead, pointing down towards his pretty blue eyes. 

Bruce blinked at himself. Pretty?

“No class yet?” he asked, shutting the door behind him. He glanced at the clock; there were still three minutes of passing time left.

Clint looked up at him and smiled beatifically. “Nah, they’re always late. That’s why I usually keep them after a few minutes.”

“I see.” Bruce didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt hyper-aware of his body. Should he stand by Clint’s desk? Sit in a student desk? Lean against the wall? No, there was no way he could pull that off and look cool. He settled for glancing around the room like he wasn’t socially inept. 

He smiled when he saw his last message to Clint had been replaced by a new one. He’d written _, My class thinks you’re a mysterious stranger_. Clint had written back,  _o I’m very mysterious_  with a winking face.

“You know you can just tell me this,” Bruce pointed out, gesturing at the message. 

Clint looked at the board, studying it. His lips were pursed and his brow furrowed in concentration. “Technically true,” he said. Then he smiled, slow and cunning, and slotted his gaze back to Bruce. “Maybe I can tell you over coffee?”

Geeze, was that a date? Was Clint asking him out on a date? Bruce cataloged the look Clint was giving him–appraising and heated, but wary and a little nervous. He decided, yeah, Clint was asking him out.

Score.

“I’d like that,” Bruce managed to say just as the first students started trickling in with thirty seconds to spare before class.

Clint stood and smiled at him. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.”

Twenty-five seconds.

The students sat in their chairs, facing forward. Bruce suddenly felt like he was being stared at. He brought his hands together at his waist and nervously tugged at his fingers. “Um,” he said. “I’m usually a tea drinker, though.”

“There’s a good place on fifth.”

Bruce knew it. It was quaint and the chairs at the tables were so close together you always knocked knees with the person you were sitting with. He wondered if that was a calculated move on Clint’s part.

Twenty seconds.

“Sounds perfect.”

“You know.” Clint’s smile grew, just a touch, fond and soft. He glanced at the classroom. “My students think you’re pretty mysterious, too.”

Fifteen seconds.

“Really?” Bruce squeaked. He’d never been called mysterious before. 

“Mmhm.” Clint slipped from behind the desk and took slow, measured steps towards Bruce.

Ten seconds.

“And,” Clint said, leaning in to whisper. Bruce unconsciously leaned towards him as well. “It was kinda my idea to ask you to guest lecture.”

Bruce had assumed that, actually. 

He looked at the class, still half empty, then back to Clint. Five seconds.

“Sit down, Mr. Barton,” he said. “And I’ll teach you something.”

Clint was grinning as the bell rang.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [asked](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/119259530960/bruce-is-just-chilling-in-his-lab-one-day-when-a): Bruce is just chilling in his lab one day when a dissociative episode comes on. Bruce goes to find Clint but ends up running into Steve who has no idea what's going on. Clint turns up and tries to help Bruce while trying to explain everything toSteve

“Are you a police man?”

Steve was tired–boned tired, the kind of tired that only came from long hours spent jumping when SHIELD said jump and shooting when SHIELD said shoot. His uniform was scuffed and dirty, and he was certain his normally-perfect hair was as raggedy as he felt. He just wanted a shower and a nap followed by at least a day uninterrupted when he could draw, or listen to music, or just reminisce in peace.

He wasn’t prepared, then, for Bruce’s question.

“Am I what?” he asked, exhaustion coloring his words even as he tried to shore up and stand tall. Captain America couldn’t be weak, not even in front of his friends.

Nervous and flighty were two looks Bruce sported often, but now he seemed even smaller than usual. He was all curled up on himself and tucked against the wall of the elevator. “Um,” Bruce said. He ducked his head and Steve noticed he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Steve said slowly. He was used to Bruce apologizing, but something about Bruce’s mannerisms had him nervous. This wasn’t usual for the scientist. “Bruce, are you feeling okay?”

“It’s just ‘cause, you know,” Bruce whispered as he turned his head to smash his face against the wall of the elevator. “Mom says to find a police man if you’re lost.”

His mother? Steve blinked in surprise. He’d never heard Bruce mention his mother, and certainly not like that. Bruce was almost… childlike. “You should,” Steve said stupidly.

“’N you’re in blue.”

Steve looked down at himself. “Yes, I am.”

The elevator chirped at them to remind them they were going nowhere. Steve said the number of his floor and turned as the elevator began to move upwards. He thought about reaching out to Bruce, but even on the best of days the man shunned human contact.

“Bruce,” Steve said quietly. “Are you lost?”

Bruce snuffled against the wall. Was he, was he crying? “Kinda.”

Steve felt like he was thrown off balance. “JARVIS, take us to Clint’s floor, please.”

“Understood, Captain.”

Bruce looked over when Steve said Clint’s name. Steve thanked his lucky stars and stripes that Bruce wasn’t actually crying, although his eyes were red and his lips were pursed in a wobbly line. He looked miserable for the brief ride up to Clint’s floor.

Steve didn’t really know what to do, but he hoped Clint would. He quietly urged Bruce out of the elevator and into the spacious lounge. Steve was just about to call for Clint when he came sprinting out of the bedroom.

Clint looked them over and assessed the situation with practiced ease. Steve felt a surge of pride for how quickly a member of his team could rise to the call. Clint went from tense to artificially relaxed as he saw Bruce, hunched and nervous. “Hey, buddy,” he said to Bruce. “Everything okay?”

Bruce looked nervously from Steve to Clint, then back again. “Not supposed to talk to strangers,” he whispered to Steve.

“It’s okay,” Steve said, feeling wildly off balance. “Clint is an ag–a police officer.” 

“Oh, it’s just that.” Clint relaxed for real and took a step towards Bruce. “Robbie?” he asked.

Bruce nodded quietly and then ducked his head. He shuffled forward as Clint reached out and took his elbow, leading him to the couch. 

Steve mouthed, ‘Robbie?’ as he watched them. 

Bruce sat on the couch dutifully. Clint bustled around gathering up blankets and pillows for him.

“Don’t worry, Robbie,” Clint said, soothing. “Now that we’ve found you we’ll call your momma and let her know, okay? You weren’t lost for very long.”

Bruce looked ridiculous under his pile of blankets, but he did seem calmer. His face was still tense with worry, but now he looked younger. “She’s gonna come get me?”

“It will be okay,” Clint promised. He turned back to Steve and looked surprised to still see him standing there.

“Is everything…?” Steve made a weak gesture with one hand.

Clint walked over to speak with him in a hushed almost-whisper. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bruce doesn’t seem himself. If this is going to affect how he feels–”

“I said don’t worry about it,” Clint snapped.

Steve shut his mouth with a click. He suddenly realized how that had sounded, like he was more worried about a potential Hulk-out than his friend’s health. He winced and said, “That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” Clint softened a little. He glanced back at where Bruce was peering at them over the back of the couch. “This is…this is normal for Bruce. You know how Hulk comes out when Bruce needs him?”

“Yes.”

“He’s got other…people who come out, too. Robbie’s a usual around here. He always comes looking for me, although I don’t think he remembers me. He must have gotten distracted by you.”

Steve nodded slowly, still not quite understanding but willing not to push. “Do you…is there anything I can do?”

“You helped plenty.” Clint placed his hand on Steve’s back and gave him a little push towards the elevator. “Now go take a shower. You’re rank.”

“Thanks.” Steve frowned at him, but obeyed.

The elevator took a second to arrive, long enough for Clint to turn back and perch on the back of the couch, legs thrown over and feet resting on the cushions. Steve stepped into the elevator and watched as Clint reached out and rested his hand in Bruce’s hair. It was such a simple touch. It made Steve wonder about why Bruce…Robbie…always sought out Clint. Perhaps it was because some part of Bruce, every part of Bruce, trusted the archer. Clint carded his fingers through Bruce’s hair and Bruce closed his eyes, letting out a little sniffle. It was a platonic touch, but full of intimacy and shared comfort.

The elevator doors swished shut, and Steve thought about that touch all the way to his floor.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous [prompted](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/post/119340947700/the-free-condoms-prompt):“i took a bunch of free condoms from health services just because i could and they all fell out of my bag at once and now you’re staring at me weirdly” au

“Shit,” Bruce said as about fifty condoms tumbled out of his backpack and onto the ground.

He had originally intended to take zero condoms. It wasn’t that he wanted to practice unsafe sex, or that he wasn’t interested in sex in general. It was more about the fact that no one could ever want to have sex with him. He was the dweeby guy who read physics textbooks for  _fun_. He was too skinny and too bony, and his glasses were too square and he knew that no one would ever look at him and think, yeah, I’d hit that.

But then the nice girl behind the counter had pointed out that he might know  _other_  people who may need protection only he could provide. So he’d grabbed a handful. Then he’d remembered he was roommates with Tony Stark and he filled his bag with them. 

He’d managed to get halfway across the quad with his backpack clutched to his chest, feeling like he was smuggling drugs across the boarder and not just condoms to his dorm room. He’d been nervously watching for people who might notice his condom cartel when he’d tripped over a loose stone.

And his condoms had gone tumbling out in all directions.

Bruce dropped to the ground and grabbed for them, shoving strawberry-flavored and ribbed-for-her-pleasure and XXL-sized condoms back into his bag. He’d grabbed a variety and now he regretted it. He felt hot and embarrassed, like everyone was looking at him. Which they were.

“Need a hand?”

Bruce jumped and looked over the rim of his glasses at the only soul brave enough to approach him. The guy was grinning–not maliciously–and already kneeling down to help him pick up the condoms. He grabbed one that boasted it would glow in the dark.

“Interesting choice,” the guy said as he slipped it into Bruce’s bag.

“Uh,” Bruce said, wincing. “I didn’t choose them.”

“Oh?” The guy smirked at him.

“I mean.” Bruce felt himself flush. He felt as though he would never be able to pick them all up fast enough. “I just grabbed a bunch from Health Services. I wasn’t looking at them.”

“You got a good variety.” He picked up another one and studied it. Banana flavored. “You know you only wear one at a time, right?”

“I know that,” Bruce snapped. He tried to push aside the anger, but it was all wrapped up in his embarrassment. It wasn’t enough that he had to drop condoms all over the quad, but now he was being mocked for his inexperience. “They’re not for me,” he muttered.

“That’s cool.” They’d finally gotten them all back into Bruce’s bag, save for one. They guy studied it closely, squinting at the packaging. 

Bruce watched him, growing more and more nervous by the second. “Listen, thanks,” he said suddenly. He stood quickly and got a head rush, but managed to stammer out, “I’ve gotta go. Important physics assignment due tomorrow, gotta study. Bye.”

The guy struggled to his feet, still holding the condom and looking confused, but Bruce was already booking it across the quad. He didn’t look back.

* * *

 

Tony laughed at him when he told the story, and Bruce chucked Trojans at his head until he stopped.

* * *

 

It was weeks later, and Bruce had almost forgotten about the incident. He was sitting on the lawn outside the physics building thumbing though  _The Structure of Scientific Revolutions_  when another body flopped down beside him.

“Hey,” said the guy from the Great Condom Avalanche of Last Semester. 

“Oh no,” said Bruce.

He raised an eyebrow at him and smirked a little, still not unkind. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Clint.”

Bruce debated lying but he wasn’t that creative so in the end he said, “Bruce.”

“Bruce.” Clint said it like he was taking the word for a test-drive, seeing how it handled in his mouth and over his tongue. “I wanted to return this to you.” Suddenly the condom appeared in his hand, as if from thin air.

Bruce felt himself flush.

Before he could get a word in edgewise, Clint went on, speaking a little fast like he wanted to get all his lines out before he lost his nerve. “I’m not one for keeping things that don’t belong to me. But, I was wondering if you cared about the method of delivery?” He gave Bruce a meaningful look.

It took Bruce five painfully long seconds to figure it out, and even then he didn’t quite believe it. The guy was hitting on him. 

Bruce opened his mouth and let out a little squeak. He tried to think of something witty to say, but what came out was, “You’ve carried that around since last semester?”

Clint frowned. “I mean. Yeah.”

“It’s probably no good anymore. That’s why you aren’t supposed to keep condoms in your wallet. They get creased and can tear more easily.”

Clint looked at the condom warily, like it had personally betrayed him. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You should have found someone to use it with,” Bruce told him.

“Well, I was gonna–I saw you around a few times, but…” He blushed suddenly and rubbed at his ear, the corner of the condom catching on his skin. “Took me a while to think of the perfect line.”

Bruce relaxed. At least he wasn’t the only awkward one in this situation. “Sorry I ruined it for you.”

“Is it ruined?” Clint grinned a little sheepishly. 

Bruce considered. Clint was really quite handsome, but more than that he seemed just…nice. It took a strong person to help a nerd clean up his spilled condoms, and an even stronger person to be willing to embarrass himself in an attempt to ask that nerd out. “No,” Bruce said. “It’s not ruined. But maybe we should go for dinner first.”

Clint’s grin widened. “The cafeteria’s got pizza tonight.”

That startled a laugh out of Bruce. “Sounds perfect,” he said. And then, because he’d always wanted to say it, “It’s a date.”

Clint groaned and rolled his eyes, but he was still grinning. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt me on Tumblr.](http://adenil-umano.tumblr.com/ask)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lil Prucan Drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618455) by [PoeTheRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeTheRaven/pseuds/PoeTheRaven)




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